;?>'  ^-J'    kr 


"t 
a*^'"' 


•A 


'MMMSih 


f*    <       .  j-1. 


mmm^i 


The  Honour  of  the  Chntons 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OP  MERRILEES 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  SQUIRE  S  DAUGHTER 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD   ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATERMEADS 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBEY 

THE  GRAFTONS 

THE  CLINTONS,  AND   OTHERS 

SIR  HARRY 


The 
Honour  of  the  Clintons 


By 

Archibald    Marshall 

Author  of 

"Exton  Manor,"  "The  Squire's  Daughter,* 
"The  Eldest  Son,"  etc. 


New  York 

Dodd,    Mead   and   Company 

1919 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


•     *  •  •     1.  «     • 

•    .         ■«     •         u     ,         ^ 

•        •   •      •      • « 


f^ 


I  ^  I 


To 
ARTHUR    MARWOOD 


A   "^j  f\  ^"^     '  r^ 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

CHAPTEa 

PAGE 

I 

A  HoME-CoMING 3 

II 

A  Vulgar  Theft 

18 

III 

The  Squike  Is  Drawx  In 

S2 

IV 

Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence 

43 

V 

A  Quiet  Talk   . 

62 

VI 

The  Young  Birds     . 

75 

VII 

The  Verdict 

BOOK  II 

84 

I  Bobby  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote 

II  Joan  and  Nancy 

III  Humphrey  and  Susan 

IV  Coming  Home  from  the  Ball 
V  Robert  Recumbent 

VI  Joan  Rebellious 

VII  Disappointments 

VIII  Proposals  .... 


97 
110 
123 
134 
142 
155 
169 
186 


BOOK  III 

I     The  Squire  Confronted 

II     A  Very  Present  Help     . 

vii 


205 

223 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER 

III  The  Burpen 

IV  This  Our  Sister 


PAGE 

247 


BOOK  IV 


I  A  Return 

II  Payment    . 

III  The  Straight  Path 

IV  A  Conclave 
V  Waiting 

VI  The  Power  of  the 

VII  Thinking  It  Out 

VIII  Skies  Clearing 

IX  Skies  Clear 


Storm 


26S 
281 
291 
300 
312 
324 
341 
351 
366 


BOOK    I 


CHAPTER   I 

A  HOME-COMING 

The  lilacs  in  the  station-yard  at  Kencote  were  heavy 
with  their  trusses  of  white  and  purple ;  the  rich  pastures 
that  stretched  away  on  either  side  of  the  line  were 
yellow  with  buttercups. 

Out  of  the  smiling  peace  of  the  country-side  came 
puffing  the  busy  little  branch-line  train.  It  came  to 
and  fro  half  a  dozen  times  a  day,  making  a  rare  contact 
between  the  outside  world  and  this  sunny  placid  corner 
of  meadow  and  brook  and  woodland.  Here  all  life  that 
one  could  see  was  so  quiet  and  so  contented  that  the 
train  seemed  to  lose  its  character  as  it  crept  across  the 
bright  levels,  and  to  be  less  a  noisy  determined  machine 
of  progress  than  a  trail  of  white  steam,  floating  out 
over  the  grazing  cattle  and  the  willows  by  the  brook- 
side,  as  much  in  keeping  with  the  scene  as  the  wisps 
of  cloud  that  made  delicate  the  blue  of  the  fresh  spring 
sky. 

The  white  cloud  detached  itself  from  the  engine  and 
melted  away  into  the  sky,  and  the  train  slid  with  a 
cheerful  rattle  alongside  the  platform  and  came  to  a 
stand-still.  Nancy  Clinton,  who  had  been  awaiting  its 
arrival  with  some  impatience,  waved  her  hand  and  hur- 
ried to  the  carriage  from  which  she  had  seen  looking 
out  a  face  exactly  like  her  own.     By  the  time  she  had 


•'4l-.'  \/,:liUe  Hcjuouv  of  the  Clintons 

reached  it  her  twin  sister,  Joan,  had  alighted,  and  was 
ready  with  her  greeting. 

"  Hullo,  old  girl !  " 

"  You're  nearly  ten  minutes  late." 

The  twins  had  been  parted  for  a  fortnight,  which 
had  very  seldom  happened  to  them  before  in  the  whole 
nineteen  years  of  their  existence,  and  both  of  them 
were  pleased  to  be  together  once  more.  If  they  had 
been  rather  less  pleased  they  might  have  said  rather 
more. 

More  was,  in  fact,  said  by  the  maid  who  stood  at 
the  carriage  door  with  Joan's  dressing-bag  in  her 
hand. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Nancy.  Lor,  you  are  look- 
ing well,  and  a  sight  for  sore  eyes.  We've  come  back 
again,  you  see,  and  don't  want  to  go  away  from  you 
no  more.  Miss  Joan,  please  ketch  'old  of  this,  and 
I'll  get  the  other  things  out.  Where's  that  porter? 
He  wants  somebody  be'ind  'im  with  a  stick." 

"  Hullo,  Hannah !  "  said  Nancy.  "  As  talkative  as 
ever!  Come  along,  Joan.  She  can  look  after  the 
things." 

The  two  girls  went  out  through  the  booking-office, 
at  the  door  of  which  the  station-master  expressed  re- 
spectful pleasure  at  the  return  of  the  traveller,  and 
got  into  the  carriage  waiting  for  them.  There  was  a 
luggage  cart  as  well,  and  the  groom  in  charge  of  it 
touched  his  hat  and  grinned  with  pleasure ;  as  did  alsa 
the  young  coachman  on  the  box. 

"  I  seem  to  be  more  popular  than  ever,"  said  Joan 


A  Ilome-Coming  5 

as  she  got  into  the  carriage.     "  Why  aren't  we  allowed 
a  footman?  " 

"  You  won't  find  you're  at  all  popular  when  you  get 
home,"  said  Nancy.  "  The  absence  of  a  footman  is 
intended  to  mark  father's  displeasure  with  you.  He 
sent  out  to  say  there  wasn't  to  be  one,  and  William  was 
to  drive,  instead  of  old  Probyn.  Father  is  very  good 
at  making  his  ritual  expressive." 

"  What's  the  trouble  ?  "  enquired  Joan.  "  My  going 
to  Brummels  for  the  week-end?  " 

"  Yes.  Without  a  rc^f/i-your-leave  or  bz/-your-leave. 
Such  a  house  as  that  is  no  place  for  a  well-brought-up 
girl,  and  what  on  earth  Humphrey  and  Susan  were 
thinking  of  in  taking  you  there  he  can't  think.  I  say, 
why  did  you  all  go  in  such  a  hurry?  You  didn't  say 
anything  about  it  when  you  wrote  on  Friday." 

"  Because  it  was  arranged  all  in  a  hurry.  Lady  Sed- 
bergh  is  going  through  a  month's  rest  cure  at  Brum- 
mels, and  she  thought  she'd  have  a  lively  party  to  say 
good-bye  before  she  shuts  herself  up.  It  was  Bobby 
Trench  who  made  her  ask  us,  at  the  last  moment." 

"Joan,  is  Bobby  Trench  paying  you  attentions? 
You  never  told  me  anything  in  your  letters,  but  he 
seems  to  have  been  always  about." 

Joan  laughed.  "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  Bobby  Trench 
later  on,"  she  said.  "  I've  been  saving  it  up.  Mother 
isn't  annoyed  at  my  going  to  Brummels,  is  she?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  But  she  said  Humphrey  and 
Susan  ought  not  to  have  taken  you  there  without  ask- 
ing." 


6  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  There  wasn't  time  to  ask.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  go, 
just  to  see  how  the  smart  set  really  do  behave  when 
they're  all  at  home  together." 

"Well,  how  do  they?" 

"  It  really  is  what  Frank  calls  *  chaude  etoffeJ*  I 
don't  wonder  that  Lady  Sedbergh  wants  a  rest  cure  if 
that's  how  she  spends  her  life.  On  Sunday  we  had  a 
fancy  dress  dinner — anything  w^e  could  find — and  she 
came  down  as  the  Brummels  ghost  in  a  sort  of  night- 
gown with  her  hair  down  her  back  and  her  face  whit- 
ened. She  looked  a  positive  idiot  sitting  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  She  must  be  at  least  fifty  and  the  ghost  was 
only  seventeen." 

"What  did  you  wear.?" 

"  Oh,  I  borrowed  Hannah's  cap  and  apron ;  and 
Susan's  maid  lent  me  a  black  dress.  I  was  much  ad- 
mired. Susan  was  a  flapper.  She  had  on  some  clothes 
of  Betty  Trench's,  who  is  only  fourteen,  and  about  her 
size.  She  looked  rather  silly.  Humphrey  was  properly 
dressed,  except  that  he  wore  white  trousers  and  a  pink 
silk  pyjama  jacket.  He  said  he  was  Night  and  Morn- 
ing. He  looked  the  most  respectable  of  all  the  men,  ex- 
cept Lord  Sedbergh,  who  said  he  wasn't  playing.  He's 
a  dear  old  thing  and  lets  them  all  do  just  what  they 
like,  and  laughs  all  the  time.  Bobby  Trench  was  a 
bathing  woman,  with  a  sponge  bag  thing  on  his  head. 
He  was  really  awfully  funny,  but  he  was  funniest  of  all 
when  he  forgot  what  he  looked  like  and  languished  at 
me.  I  was  having  soup,  and  I  choked,  and  Lord 
Rokeby,  who  was  sitting  next  to  me,  thumped  me  on  the 


A  Home-Coming  7 

back.     All  their  manners  are  delightfully  free  and  nat- 
ural." 

"Well,  you  seem  to  have  enjoyed  yourself." 
"  We  finished  up  the  evening  with  a  pillow  fight. 
Fancy ! — Lady  Sedbergh  and  some  of  the  other  older 
women  joined  in,  and  made  as  much  noise  as  anybody. 
You  should  have  seen  Hannah's  face  when  I  did  at  last 
get  into  my  room,  where  she  was  waiting  for  me.  She 
said  a  judgment  was  sure  to  fall  on  us  for  such  goings 


on." 


"A  judgment  is  certainly  going  to  fall  on  you,  my 
dear.  Father  will  seize  you  the  moment  you  get  into 
the  house  and  ask  you  what  you  mean  by  it." 

"  Dear  father  !  "  said  Joan  affectionately.  "  It  is 
jolly  to  be  home  again,  Nancy.  How  lovely  the  chest- 
nuts are  looking !     Dear  peaceful  old  Kencote  ! " 

They  drove  in  through  the  lodge  gates,  where  Joan 
received  a  smile  and  a  curtsey,  and  along  the  short 
drive  through  the  park,  and  drew  up  beneath  the  porch 
of  the  big  ugly  square  house.  Mrs.  Clinton  was  at  the 
door,  and  Joan  enveloped  her  in  an  ardent  embrace, 
which  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  the  Squire, 
big  and  burly,  with  a  grizzled  beard  and  a  look  of  self- 
contented  authority. 

"  I've  got  som.ething  to  say  to  you.  Miss  Joan.  Come 
into  my  room." 

He  turned  his  back  and  marched  off  to  the  library,  in 
which  he  spent  most  of  his  time  when  he  was  indoors. 

Joan,  after  another  hug  and  kiss,  followed  him.  It 
may  or  may  not  have  been  a  sign  of  the  deterioration 


8  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

in  manner,  wrought  by  her  visit  to  Brummels, 
that  she  winked  at  Nancy  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
did  so. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me,  father?"  she  asked, 
going  up  to  him.  "  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you  again, 
and  I'm  sure  you're  just  as  pleased  to  see  me." 

The  face  that  she  lifted  up  to  him  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  been  resisted  by  any  man  who  had  not  the 
privilege  of  close  relationship.  The  Squire,  however, 
successfully  resisted  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  kiss  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  very  dis- 
pleased with  you.  What  on  earth  possessed  Humphrey 
and  Susan  to  take  you  off  to  a  house  like  that,  without 
a  with-your-leave  or  a  by-y our-leave  .^^  And  what  do 
you  mean  by  going  to  places  where  you  knew  perfectly 
well  you  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  go.^^  " 

"  But,  father  darling,"  expostulated  Joan,  with  an 
expression  of  puzzled  innocence,  "  I  knew  Lord  Sed- 
bergh  was  an  old  friend  of  yours.  I  didn't  think  you 
could  possibly  object  to  my  going  there  with  Humphrey 
and  Susan.  They  only  got  up  their  party  on  Friday 
evening,  and  there  wasn't  time  to  write  home.  Why  do 
you  mind  so  much  ^  " 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  why  I  mind,"  returned  the 
Squire  irritably.  "  All  sorts  of  things  go  on  in  houses 
like  that,  and  all  sorts  of  people  are  welcomed  there 
that  I  won't  have  a  daughter  of  mine  mixed  up  with. 
You've  been  brought  up  in  a  God-fearing  house,  and 
you've  got  to  content  yourself  with  the  life  we  live  here, 
I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it." 


A  Home-Coming  9 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  father  dear.  I  won't  do  it  again. 
Now  give  me  a  kiss." 

But  the  Squire  was  not  yet  ready  for  endearments. 

"  Won't  do  it  again  !  "  he  echoed.  "  No,  you  won't 
do  it  again.  I'll  take  good  care  of  that.  If  you  can't 
go  on  a  visit  to  your  relations  without  getting  into  mis- 
chief you'll  stop  at  home." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  better,"  replied  Joan  tact- 
fully. "  I  didn't  know  how  ripping  Kencote  was  till  I 
drove  home  just  now.  Everything  is  looking  lovely. 
How  are  the  young  birds  doing  .'^  " 

"  Never  mind  about  the  young  birds,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  We've  got  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  business.  You 
must  have  known  very  well  that  I  should  object  to  your 
going  to  a  house  like  Brummels.  When  that  young 
Trench  came  here  a  few  years  ago  you  heard  me  object 
very  strongly  to  the  way  he  behaved  himself.  Cards 
on  Sunday,  and  using  the  house  like  an  hotel,  never 
keeping  any  hours  except  what  suited  himself,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all.  Did  they  play  cards  on  Sunday 
at  Brummels.'^ " 

Joan  was  obliged  to  confess  that  they  did. 

"Of  course!  Did  t^ou  play.?  Did  Humphrey  and 
Susan  play?  " 

"  Oh  no,  father ;  I  don't  know  how  to  play  and  I 
wouldn't  think  of  it,"  replied  Joan  hurriedly,  to  the 
first  question. 

"Did  you  go  to  church?" 

"  Oh  yes,  father.  I  went  with  Lord  Sedbergh.  He 
is  a  dear  old  man,  and  hates  cards  now." 


10  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  call  him  an  old  man. 
He  is  just  the  same  age  as  I  am.  It's  quite  true  that 
we  were  friends  as  young  fellows.  But  that's  a  good 
many  years  ago.  He  has  gone  his  way  and  I  have  gone 
mine.  I  don't  suppose  he  is  responsible  for  all  the  folly 
and  extravagance  that  goes  on  in  his  house ;  still,  he 
lives  an  altogether  different  sort  of  life,  and  we  haven't 
met  for  years.  If  he  remembers  my  name  it's  about  as 
much  as  he  would  do." 

"  Oh,  but  he  talked  a  lot  about  you,  father.  He  told 
me  all  sorts  of  stories  about  when  you  were  at  Cam- 
bridge together.  He  said  once  you  began  to  play  cards 
after  dinner  and  didn't  leave  off  until  breakfast  time 
the  next  morning." 

"  H'm  !  ha !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  Of  course  young 
fellows  do  a  number  of  foolish  things  that  they  don't 
do  afterwards.  Did  anyone  but  you  and  Lord  Sed- 
bergh  go  to  church  on  Sundaj''?  " 

Joan  was  obliged  to  confess  that  they  had  been  the 
only  attendants. 

"  Well,  there  it  is !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  Out  of  all 
that  household,  only  two  willing  to  do  their  duty  to- 
wards God  Almighty!  I  shall  give  Humphrey  and 
Susan  a  piece  of  my  mind.  I  blame  them  more  for  it 
than  I  do  you.  But  at  the  same  time  you  ought  not  to 
have  gone,  and  I  hope  you  fully  understand  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  father  dear,"  replied  Joan.  "  You  have 
made  it  quite  plain  now.  Don't  be  cross  any  more, 
and  give  me  a  kiss.  I've  been  longing  for  one  ever 
since  I  came  in." 


A  Home-Coming  11 

The  Squire  capitulated.  "  Now  run  away,"  he  said 
when  he  had  satisfied  the  calls  of  filial  affection,  and 
paternal  no  less.  "  I've  got  some  papers  to  look 
through.  What  3'ou've  got  to  do  is  to  put  it  all  out  of 
your  mind,  and  settle  down  and  make  yourself  happy 
at  home.  God  knows  I  do  all  /  can  to  make  my  chil- 
dren happy.  The  amount  that  goes  out  in  a  house 
like  this  would  frighten  a  good  many  people,  and  I 
expect  some  return  of  obedience  to  my  wishes  for  all 
the  sacrifices  I  make." 

When  Joan  had  left  him  the  Squire  went  to  find  his 
wife. 

"  Nina,"  he  said,  "  I'm  infernally  worried  about  Joan 
going  to  a  house  like  Brummels.  The  child's  a  good 
child,  but  wants  looking  after.  She  ought  never  to 
have  been  allowed  to  go  up  to  Susan.  I  thought  trouble 
would  come  of  it  when  it  was  suggested." 

Mrs.  Clinton  did  not  remind  her  husband  that  both 
the  twins  had  stayed  with  their  sister-in-law  before,  and 
that  beyond  a  grumble  at  anybody  preferring  London 
to  Kencote  he  had  never  made  any  objection. 

"  I  think  they  ought  not  to  have  taken  her  away  on 
a  visit  without  asking,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton.  "  But  Joan 
and  Nancy  are  grown-up  now,  and  I  think  they  are  both 
too  sensible  to  take  any  harm  by  being  with  Susan. 
What  I  feel  is  that  they  must  see  things  for  them- 
selves, and  not  be  kept  always  shut  up  at  home." 

"  Shut  up !  "  repeated  the  Squire.  "  That's  a  fool- 
ish way  of  talking.  Home  is  the  best  place  for  3^oung 
girls ;  and  who  could  wish  for  a  better  home  than  Ken- 


12  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

cote?  The  fact  is  tliat  this  London  life  is  getting 
looser  and  more  immoral  every  day.  Look  what  an 
effect  it  is  having  on  Humphrej^  and  Susan!  What 
with  all  that  money  that  old  Aunt  Laura  left  them,  and 
the  allowance  I  make  to  Humphrey,  and  the  few  hun- 
dreds a  year  that  Susan  has,  they  could  very  well  afford 
to  keep  up  quite  a  nice  little  place  in  the  country,  and 
live  a  sensible  healthy  life.  As  it  is  they  live  in  a  poky 
flat  that  you  can  hardly  turn  round  in,  and  yet  they 
spK?nd  twice  as  much  money  as  Dick,  who^  is  imusldest 
son^  and  is  quite  content  to  live  here  quietly  in  the 
f  Dower  House  and  not  go  running  about  all  over  the 
place.  And  they  spend  twice  as  much  as  Walter,  who 
has  a  family  to  keep.  And  they  don't  really  get  on  well 
together,  either.  Their  marriage  has  been  a  great  dis- 
appointment— a  disappointment  in  every  way.  The 
fact  is  that  a  young  couple  without  any  children  to  look 
after  and  keep  them  steady  are  bound  to  get  into  mis- 
chief, especially  if  they've  got  the  tastes  that 
Humphrey  and  Susan  have,  and  enough  money  to 
gratify  them.  Nina,  I  hate  this  set  of  people  that  the}^ 
make  their  friends  of.  Did  you  know  that  that  Mrs. 
Amberley  was  staying  at  Brummels.^  " 

"  I  saw  her  name  in  the  paper,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton. 

"  A  nice  sort  of  woman  for  a  young  girl  like  Joan 
to  be  asked  to  meet !  She's  a  notoriously  loose  char- 
acter ;  and  a  good  many  other  members  of  the  party 
are  no  better  than  they  should  be.  Lady  Sedbergh  her- 
self is  a  frivolous  fool,  if  she's  no  worse,  and  as  for  that 
young  cub  who  came  here  a  year  or  two  ago,  I  don't 


A  Home'Coming  13 

know  when  I've  seen  a  young  fellow  I  object  to  more. 
I  believe  Sedbergh  himself  has  the  remains  of  decency 
and  digiiity :  but  what  does  one  person  count  amongst 
all  that  vicious  gang?  Upon  my  word,  Humphrey  and 
Susan  ought  to  be  whipped  for  taking  a  girl  of  Joan's 
age  to  such  a  place.  The  children  shan't  go  to  stay 
with  them  again.  The  fact  is  that  they  can't  be  trusted 
in  anything.  Well,  I  can't  stay  talking  here;  I  must 
go  back  to  my  papers." 

In  the  meantime  Joan  had  retired  with  Nancy  to 
their  own  quarters.  They  still  occupied  one  of  the 
large  nurseries  as  their  bedroom,  and  used  the  old 
schoolroom  as  a  place  where  they  could  enjoy  the 
privacy  necessary  for  their  own  intimate  pursuits. 
Their  elder  sister  and  three  of  their  brothers  were  mar- 
ried, their  governess  had  left  them  at  the  end  of  the 
previous  year,  and  as  a  rule  they  had  these  rooms  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  East  wing  entirely  to  themselves. 
But  at  this  time,  Frank,  their  sailor  brother,  was  at 
home  on  leave,  and  had  taken  up  his  old  quarters  there. 
He  was  a  rising  young  lieutenant  of  twenty-six,  and  the 
twins  had  been  presented  to  their  sovereign  and  let 
loose  generally  on  a  grown-up  world.  But  between 
them  they  managed  to  produce  a  creditable  revival  of 
the  period  when  the  East  wing  had  been  full  of  the 
noise  and  games  of  childhood;  for  they  were  all  three 
young  at  heart  and  the  cares  of  life  as  yet  sat  lightly 
on  them. 

"  Frank  and  I  have  started  schoolroom  tea  again," 
said  Nancy,  as  she  and  Joan  went  up  to  their  bedroom 


14  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

together.  "  He  says  he  wants  eggs,  after  being  out  the 
whole  afternoon;  and  mother  doesn't  mind.  You  will 
preside  over  the  urn  at  five  o'clock." 

"  Jolly  !  "  said  Joan.     "  Where  is  Frank.?  " 

"He  hacked  over  to  Mountfield  to  see  Jim  and 
Cicely."  (Cicely,  the  eldest  of  the  Clinton  girls,  had 
married  a  country  neighbour,  Jim  Graham,  and  lived 
about  five  miles  from  Kencote.)  "  But  he  said  he  would 
be  back  for  tea.  I  suppose  you  calmed  father  down  all 
right.?" 

"  Oh  yes.  He's  a  dear  old  lamb,  but  he  must  have 
his  say  out.  You  only  have  to  give  him  his  head,  and  he 
works  it  all  off.  You  know,  Nancy,  although  father  is 
rather  tiresome  at  times,  he  is  much  better  than  all 
those  silly  old  men  you  meet  about  London.  He  is  over 
sixty,  and  he  doesn't  mind  behaving  like  it.  A  lot  of 
them  expect  you  to  treat  them  as  if  they  were  your 
own  age,  whether  they  are  married  or  not." 

"  You  seem  to  have  gone  through  some  eye-opening 
experiences." 

"  I  have.     I  feel  that  I  know  the  world  now." 

She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
glass,  touching  the  twined  masses  of  her  pretty  fair 
hair.  The  lines  of  her  slim  body,  and  her  delicate 
tapering  fingers,  were  those  of  a  woman;  but  the 
child's  soul  had  not  yet  faded  out  of  her  eyes,  and  still 
set  its  impress  on  the  curves  of  her  mouth. 

"  Tell  me  about  Bobby  Trench." 

Joan  laughed,  with  a  ringing  note  of  amusement. 
"  Of  course  you  know  why  we  were  all  given  such  a  sud- 


A  Home-Coming  15 

den   and   pressing  invitation   to   Brummels,"   she  said. 

Nancy  jumped  the  implied  question  and  answer. 
"  Well,  it  was  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later,"  she  said. 
"  With  both  of  us,  I  mean ;  not  you  only.  There  is  no 
doubt  we  possess  great  personal  attractions.  But  I 
don't  think  you  have  much  to  boast  about,  if  it's  only 
Bobby  Trench.  What  is  he  like.?  Has  he  changed 
at  all  since  he  came  here.'^  " 

"Oh,  he  is  just  as  silly  and  conceited  as  ever;  but 
love  has  softened  him." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  him  softened,  myself.  He'd  be 
sillier  than  ever.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Joan.  How  did 
he  behave.'^  " 

Joan  told  her  all  about  it ;  and  the  recital  would  not 
have  pleased  Mr.  Robert  Trench,  if  he  had  heard  it. 
With  those  cool  young  eyes  she  had  remorselessly  re- 
garded the  antics  of  the  attracted  male,  and  found  them 
only  absurd.     But  she  had  not  put  a  stop  to  them. 

"  You  know,  Nancy,"  she  said  guilelessly,  "  it's  all 
very  well  to  talk  as  they  do  in  books  about  a  man  being 
able  to  make  a  girl  like  him  if  he  keeps  at  her  long 
enough ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  Bobby  Trench  could  never 
make  me  like  him — in  that  way — ^^if  he  tried  for  a 
hundred  years.  Still,  it  is  rather  nice  to  feel  that  one 
is  grown  up  at  last." 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  you  have  been  flirting 
with  Bobby  Trench,"  said  Nancy ;  "  and  you  ou^t  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

But  Joan  indignantly  denied  this.  "What  I  did," 
she  said,  "  was  to  prevent  his  flirting  with  me." 


16  Tlie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  Nancy  said  un- 
concernedly, "  I  suppose  I  told  you  that  John  Spence 
came  here." 

Joan  turned  round  sharply,  and  looked  at  her.  "  No, 
you  didn't,"  she  said. 

After  another  moment's  pause,  she  said,  "  You  know 
you  didn't." 

Then  came  the  question :  "  Why  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  He  was  only  here  for  two  nights,"  said  Nancy. 
"  At  the  Dower  House,  of  course.  If  I  didn't  tell  you, 
I  meant  to." 

Joan  scrutinised  her  closely,  and  then  turned  away. 

"  He  was  awfully  sorry  to  miss  you,"  Nancy  said. 
"  He  told  me  to  give  you  his  love." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Joan,  rather  stiffly. 

John  Spence  was  a  friend  of  Dick  Clinton,  who  had 
managed  his  estates  for  him  for  a  year.  He  had  first 
come  to  Kencote  when  the  twins  were  about  fifteen,  and 
had  impressed  himself  on  their  youthful  imaginations. 
He  was  nearly  twenty  years  older  than  they,  but  simple 
of  mind,  free  of  his  laughter,  and  noticeably  warm- 
hearted. He  liked  all  young  things ;  and  the  Clinton 
twins  had  afforded  him  great  amusement.  He  had  been 
to  Kencote  occasionally  as  they  were  growing  up,  and 
the  elder-brotherly  intimacy  with  which  he  had  treated 
them  at  the  first  had  not  altered.  He  was  the  friend 
of  both  of  them,  but  when  he  had  come  twice  to  Kencote 
to  shoot,  during  the  previous  season,  he  had  seemed  to 
show  a  very  slight  preference  for  the  society  of  Joan. 
It  had  been  so  slight  that  the  twins,  who  had  never  had 


A  Home-Coining  17 

thoughts  which  thej  had  not  shared,  had  made  no  men- 
tion of  it  between  them. 

But  now,  at  a  stroke,  the  great  fact  of  sex  came 
rushing  in  to  affect  these  young  girls,  who  had  played 
with  it  in  a  light  unknowing  way,  but  had  never  felt 
it.  They  could  amuse  themselves,  and  each  other,  with 
the  amorous  advances  of  Bobby  Trench,  but  the  fact 
that  Nancy  had  omitted  to  tell  Joan  of  John  Spence's 
visit  was  portentous,  slight  as  the  omission  might  seem. 
Their  habitual  intercourse  was  one  of  intimate  humour, 
varied  by  frank  disputes,  which  never  touched  the  close 
ties  that  bound  them.  But  this  was  a  subject  on  which 
they  could  neither  joke  nor  quarrel.  It  was  likely  to 
alter  the  relations  that  had  always  existed  between 
them,  if  it  was  not  faced  at  once. 

It  was  impossible  for  either  of  them  not  to  face  it. 
For  the  whole  of  their  lives  each  had  known  exactly 
what  was  in  the  mind  of  the  other.  Each  knew  now, 
and  the  know^ledge  could  not  be  ignored. 

"Well,  he  was  awfully  nice,"  said  Nancy,  rather  as 
if  she  were  saying  something  she  did  not  want  to.  "  I 
liked  him  better  than  ever.  But  he  sent  his  love  to 
you." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  have  told  me  that 
he  had  come,"  said  Joan. 

But  she  saw  very  well,  and  in  the  light  of  her  seeing 
John  Spence  ceased  to  be  the  openly  admired  friend  of 
her  and  Nancy's  childhood,  and  became  something  quite 
different. 


CHAPTER   II 


A  VULGAR  THEFT 


In  the  great  square  dining-room  at  Kencote  the  Squire 
was  sitting  over  his  wine,  with  his  eldest  and  youngest 
sons. 

From  the  walls  looked  down  portraits  of  Clintons 
dead  and  gone,  and  of  the  horses  and  dogs  that  they 
had  loved,  as  well  as  some  pictures  that  by-gone  owners 
of  Kencote  had  brought  back  from  their  travels,  or 
bought  from  contemporary  rising  and  since  famous  ar- 
tists. There  were  some  good  pictures  at  Kencote,  but 
nobody  ever  took  much  notice  of  them,  except  a  visitor 
now  and  then. 

Yet  their  presence  had  its  effect  on  these  latest 
members  of  a  healthy,  ancient  line.  No  family  por- 
traits went  back  further  than  two  hundred  years,  be- 
cause Elizabethan  Kencote,  with  nearly  all  its  treasures 
of  art  and  antiquity,  had  been  burnt  down,  and  Geor- 
gian Kencote  built  in  its  place.  Even  Georgian  Kencote 
had  suffered  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, at  the  hands  of  a  rich  and  progressive  owner ; 
rooms  had  been  stripped  of  panelling,  windows  had  been 
enlarged ;  and,  but  for  a  few  old  pieces  here  and  there, 
the  furniture  was  massive  but  ugly.  The  Clintons  were 
as  old  as  any  commoner's  family  in  England,  and  had 
lived  at  Kencote  without  any  intermission  for  some- 

18 


A  Vulgar  Theft  19 

thing  like  six  hundred  years ;  but  there  was  little  to  show 
it  in  their  surroundings  as  they  were  at  present.  Only 
the  portraits  of  the  last  six  or  seven  generations  spoke 
mutely  but  insistently  of  the  past,  and  their  proto- 
types were  as  well-known  by  name  and  character  to 
their  descendants  as  if  they  had  been  known  in  the 
flesh. 

To  us,  observing  Edward  Clinton,  twentieth  century 

Squire  of  Kencote,  with  the  eldest  son  who  would  some 

day  succeed  him,  and  the  youngest  son,  who  had  taken 

to  one  of  those  professions  to  which  the  younger  sons 

of   a   line   undistinguished    for   all   except   wealth   and 

lineage  had  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  throughout 

long  generations,  this  background  of  family  portraits 

is  full  of  suggestion.     One  might  ask  how  much  of  the 

continuity  of  life  and  habit  it  represents  is  stable,  how 

much  of  it  dependent  upon  fast-changing  circumstance. 

How  far  is  this  robust  elderly  man,  living  on  his  lands 

and   desiring  to   live  nowhere   else,   and  the  handsome 

younger  man,  whose  life  has  been  spent  in  the  centre 

of  all  modem  happenings, — how  far  are  they  what  they 

appear  to  be,  representative  of  the  well-to-do  classes  of 

modern  England ;  how  far  is  their  attitude  to  the  life 

about   them   affected   by   ideas   inherent   in   their   long 

descent.?     Are  they  really  of  the  twentieth  century,  or 

in   spite   of   superficial  modernity,   of   a   time   already 

passed  away? 

One  might  say  that  the  life  lived  by  the  Squire  was 
the  same  life,  in  all  but  accidentals,  as  that  of  the 
squires  who  had  gone  before  him,  and  whose  portraits 


20  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

huno;  on  the  walls,  and  that  it  would  be  lived  in  much 
the  same  way  by  the  son  who  was  to  come  after  him. 
And  so  it  was.  But  the  lives  of  those  dead  squires  had 
been  part  of  the  natural  order  of  things  of  their  time. 
Their  lands  had  provided  for  it,  and  of  themselves 
would  provide  for  it  no  longer.  It  was  only  by  the 
accident  of  our  Squire  being  a  rich  man,  and  being  able 
to  leave  his  son  a  rich  man,  that  either  of  them  could 
go  on  living  it.  To  this  extent  his  life  was  not  based 
upon  his  descent,  and  was  indeed  as  much  cut  off  from 
that  of  the  previous  owners  of  Kencote  as  if  he  had  been 
a  man  of  no  ancestry  at  all,  whose  wealth,  gained  else- 
where, enabled  him  to  enjoy  an  exotic  existence  as  a 
country  gentleman.  If  wealth  disappeared  the  long 
chain  would  be  broken,  for  a  reason  that  would  not 
have  broken  it  before. 

But,  when  that  is  said,  there  still  remains  the  whole 
ponderous  weight  of  tradition,  which  makes  of  him 
something  different  from  the  rich  outsider  who,  with  no 
more  than  a  generation  or  two  behind  him,  or  perhaps 
none  at  all,  comes  in  to  take  the  place  of  the  dis- 
possessed owner  whose  land  alone  will  no  longer  support 
liis  state.  What  that  counts  for  in  inherited  benevo- 
lence and  sense  of  responsibility,  qualified  by  strange 
spots  of  blindness  where  the  awakened  conscience  of  a 
community  is  beginning  to  see  more  clearly,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  gauge.  What  one  may  say  is  that 
some  flower  whose  perfume  one  can  distinguish  should 
be  produced  of  a  plant  so  many  centuries  rooted ;  that 
twenty  generations  of  men  preserved  from  the  struggle 


A  Vulgar  Theft  •  21 

for  existence,  and  having  power  over  their  fellows, 
should  end  in  something  easily  distinguishable  from  a 
man  of  yesterday;  that  such  old  established  gentility 
should  have  some  feelings  not  shared  by  the  common 
mass,  some  peculiar  sense  of  honour,  some  quality  not 
dependent  upon  wealth  alone,  some  clear  principle 
emerging  from  the  mists  of  prejudice  and  the  mere  dis- 
like of  all  change. 

So  we  come  back  to  the  Squire  sitting  with  his  sons  . 
over  their  wine,  their  pictured  forebears  looking  down  on 
them  from  the  walls,  and  wonder  a  little  whether  ther^ 
is  anything  in  it  all,  or  whether  we  are  merely  in  the 
company  of  a  man  to  whom  chance  has  given  the  oppor- 
tunity of  ordering  his  life  on  obviously  opulent  lines, 
like  many  another  with  no  forebears  that  he  knows  any- 
thing of. 

Dick  Clinton  had  held  a  commission  in  His  Majesty's 
Brigade  of  Guards  up  to  the  time  of  his  marriage  four 
years  before,  and  had  been  very  much  in  the  swim  of 
everything  that  was  going  on  in  the  world  of  rank  and 
fashion.  Now  he  lived  for  the  most  part  quietly  at 
the  Dower  House,  which  lay  just  across  the  park  of 
Kencote,  and  busied  himself  with  country  pursuits  and 
the  management  of  the  estate  to  which  he  would  one 
day  succeed.  He  was  beginning  ever  so  little  to  put 
on  flesh,  to  look  more  like  his  father,  to  lose  his  interest 
in  the  world  outside  the  manor  of  Kencote  and  the 
adjacent  lands  that  went  with  it.  But  he  was  not  yet 
a  stay-at-home,  as  the  Squire  had  long  since  become, 
and  he  and  his  wife  had  just  returned  from  a  fortnight 


22  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

in   London,   well   primed    with    the    interests    of   their 
former  associates. 

"  Have  jou  heard  about  this  business  at  Brummels  ?  " 
he  said,  as  he  passed  the  decanter. 

The  Squire  frowned  at  the  mention  of  Brummels. 
"  No.     What  business?"  he  asked. 

"  Lady  Sedbergh  has  had  a  pearl  necklace  stolen. 
It's  said  to  be  worth  ten  thousand  pounds ;  say  five. 
She  says  that  she  kept  it  in  a  secret  hiding-place,  and 
the  only  person  who  could  have  known  where  it  was  is 
Rachel  Amberley.  She  accuses  her  of  stealing  it. 
There's  going  to  be  a  pretty  scandal." 

The  Squire  frowned  more  ferociously  than  ever. 
"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  that  goes  on  amongst  people 
like  that !  "  he  said  with  disgust.  "  They  have  no  more 
sense  of  honour  than  a  set  of  convicts.  A  vulgar  theft  1 
And  there's  hardly  one  of  the  whole  lot  that  wouldn't 
be  capable  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Dick ;  "  but 
if  Mary  Sedbergh  can  be  believed,  there's  not  much 
doubt  that  Mrs.  Amberley  walked  off  with  it.  It  seems 
that  there's  an  old  hiding-place  in  the  morning-room  at 
Brummels.  You  press  a  spring  in  the  wainscot,  and 
find  a  cupboard." 

"There  are  plenty  of  those  about,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  Anybody  might  find  it.  Still,  I've  no  doubt  that  she's 
right,  and  it  was  that  Mrs.  Amberley  who  actually  did 
steal  it." 

Frank  laughed  suddenly.  He  was  accustomed  to 
suck  amusement  out  of  the  most  unlikely  sources,  and 


A  Vulgar  Theft  23 

his  father,  whether  unlikely  or  not,  was  one  of  them. 
"  Why  does  she  think  Mrs.  Amberley  found  it?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Because  she  showed  her  the  hiding-place  in  a  mo- 
ment of  expansion.  It  isn't  just  a  cupboard  behind 
the  panelling.  When  you've  found  that  you  have  only 
begun.  There  is  another  secret  place  behind  the  cup- 
board itself.  Only  Sedbergh  and  his  wife  knew  of  it. 
It's  a  secret  that  has  been  handed  down ;  and  well 
kept." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  did  she  tell  a  woman  like  Mrs. 
Amberley  about  it.^^  "  enquired  the  Squire. 

"  I  don't  know;  though  it's  just  like  her  to  do  it.  I 
think  Mrs.  Amberley  was  at  school  with  her,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  She  had  a  big  party  at  Brummels, 
and  then  emptied  the  house  and  went  through  a  month's 
rest  cure  there.  At  the  end  of  the  month  she  looked 
for  her  necklace,  and  found  it  gone.  A  diamond  star 
had  gone  as  well ;  but  other  things  she  had  put  away 
had  been  left." 

"  So,  whoever  the  thief  was,  she  had  a  month's 
start,"  said  Frank. 

"  Yes.  Sedbergh  was  called  in,  and  they  both  went 
straight  to  Rachel  Amberley  and  offered  to  hush  it  all 
up  if  she  would  give  back  the  necklace." 

The  Squire  snorted. 

"  Rachel  Amberley  bluffed  it  out.  She  said  she 
would  have  them  up  for  scandal  if  they  breathed  a  word 
of  suspicion  anyvrhere.  They  have  been  breathing  a 
good   many.     In    fact,    it's    all   over   the   place.     And 


24  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

nothing  has  happened  yet.  Everybody  is  wondering 
who  will  make  the  first  move." 

"  She  won't,"  said  the  Squire,  who  had  never  met  Mrs. 
Amberley.  "  I  am  not  in  the  way  of  hearing  much 
that  goes  on  amongst  people  of  that  sort,  now,  but  she's 
a  notoriously  loose  woman.  That's  why  I  was  so 
annoyed  when  I  heard  that  Joan  had  been  taken  to 
a  house  where  she  was  staying.  By  the  by,  this 
affair  didn't  take  place  at  that  particular  time,  did 
it?" 

"  Yes.     That's  when  it  happened." 

The  Squire's  face  was  blacker  than  ever.  "  Then  it 
will  be  known  who  was  of  the  party,"  he  said.  "  Our 
name  will  be  dragged  into  one  of  these  disgraceful 
scandals,  and  every  Dick,  Tom,  and  Harry  in  the 
country  will  be  talking  about  us.  Upon  my  word,  it's 
maddening.  I  suppose  I  can't  prevent  Humphrey  and 
Susan  keeping  what  company  they  please,  but  it  makes 
me  furious  every  time  I  think  of  it — their  taking  Joan 
there." 

"  I  don't  suppose  Joan's  name  will  come  out,"  said 
Dick.  "  There  were  lots  of  people  in  the  house  at 
the  time,  and  they  are  not  likely  to  mention  all  of 
them." 

The  Squire  was  forced  to  be  content  with  this. 
"  Well,  don't  say  anything  about  it  to  her,"  he  said. 
"  It's  an  unsavoury  business,  and  the  less  she  knows 
about  that  sort  of  thing  the  better." 

"  You  can't  keep  her  shut  up  for  ever,"  said  Dick ; 
but  his  father  pressed  more  insistently  for  silence.     "  I 


A  Vulgar  Theft  25 

don't  want  it  mentioned,"  he  said  irritably.  "  Please 
don't  say  anything  to  her — or  you  either,  Frank." 

Frank  was  mindful  of  this  injunction  when  he  next 
found  himself  alone  with  his  sisters,  which  was  at  tea- 
time  the  next  day.  But  he  saw  no  harm  in  mentioning* 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Amberley.  What  had  Joan  thought 
of  her  during  that  visit  to  Brummels,  made  memorable 
by  the  disturbance  that  had  affected  her  home-coming? 

"  Oh,  Fm  sick  of  Brummels,"  she  said.  "  Anyone 
would  think  it  was — well,  I  won't  sully  my  lips  by 
repeating  the  name  of  the  place.  Anyhow,  it  was  a 
good  deal  more  amusing  than  Kencote." 

"  Kencote  is  the  j  oiliest  place  in  the  world,"  said 
Frank.    "  You  and  Nancy  are  always  running  it  down." 

"  It  may  be  the  j  oiliest  place  in  the  world  to  you," 
said  Nancy,  "  because  you  are  here  so  seldom,  and  you 
do  exactly  what  you  want  to  do  when  you  are  here.  It 
is  pretty  slow  for  Joan  and  me,  boxed  up  here  all  the 
year  round." 

"  Well,  never  mind  about  that,"  said  Frank,  "  I 
want  to  know  how  the  notorious  Mrs.  Amberley  struck 
you,  Joan." 

"  Is  she  notorious  ?  "  asked  Joan.  "  She  struck  me  as 
being  old,  if  you  want  to  know.  Much  older  than 
mother,  although  I  suppose  they  are  about  the  same 
age,  and  mother's  hair  is  white,  and  hers  is  vermilion." 

"  Did  you  talk  to  her  at  all.?" 

"  Not  much.  She  isn't  the  sort  of  person  who 
would  care  about  girls.  And  I  don't  suppose  they 
would  care  much  about  her,  unless   they   were  pretty 


26  The  Honour  of  the  Clintoris 

advanced.  I'm  not,  you  know,  Frank.  I'm  a  bread 
and  butter  Miss  from  the  country.  I  keep  my  mouth 
shut  and  my  eyes  open." 

"  At  the  same  time,"  said  Nancy,  "  our  splendid 
youth  is  really  a  great  attraction.  If  Joan  and  I  had 
lived  in  the  eighteenth  century,  we  should  have  been 
known  as  the  beautiful  Miss  Clintons.  And  we  should 
have  had  a  very  good  time." 

"  You  have  a  very  good  time  as  it  is,"  said  Frank, 
"  only  you're  not  sensible  enough  to  know  it.  You 
ought  not  to  want  anything  much  jollier  than  this." 

The  windows  of  the  big  airy  upstairs  room  were  wide 
open  to  the  summer  breezes.  Outside,''the  spreading 
lawns  of  the  garden,  bordered  by  ancient  trees,  and  the 
grassy  level  of  the  park  lay  quiet  and  spacious,  flooded 
with  soft  sunshine.  iThere  was  an  air  of  leisure  and 
undisturbed  seclusion  about  the  scene^  which  was 
summed  up  in  this  room,  retired  from  the  rest  of  the 
house,  where  the  happiness  of  childhood  still  lingered. 
It  was  not  surprising  that  Frank,  coming  back  to  it 
after  his  long  sea  wanderings,  should  have  been  seized 
by  the  opulent  tranquillity  of  his  home.  He  was  as 
happy  as  he  could  be,  all  day  and  every  day,  woke  up 
to  a  clear  sensation  of  pleasure  at  finding  himself 
where  he  was,  and  watched  the  dwindling  tail  of  his 
leave  with  hardly  less  regret  than  the  end  of  the  holi- 
days had  brought  him  during  his  schooldays.  At 
twenty-six,  with  ten  years  of  the  sea  and  the  responsi- 
bilities of  his  profession  behind  him,  he  had  stepped 
straight  back  into  his  boyhood.     He  was  not  reflective 


A  Vulgar  Theft  27 

enough  to  realise  that  time  would  not  stand  still  for 
him  in  this  way  for  ever.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  what- 
ever else  might  change,  Kencote  would  always  be  the 
same,  and  he  could  always  recapture  his  boyhood  there. 
That  was  partly  why  he  disliked  to  hear  his  young  sisters 
belittling  its  comparative  stagnation,  which  was  to  him 
so  delightful.  He  had  thought  them  absurdly  grown- 
up when  he  had  first  come  home;  but  that  effect  had 
worn  off.  He  was  a  boy,  and  they  were  children  in  the 
schoolroom  again,  their  father  and  mother  downstairs, 
out  of  the  way  of  their  noise.  So  it  would  be  when  he 
came  home  again  in  two  or  three  years'  time.  So  it 
would  always  be,  as  far  as  it  was  in  him  to  look 
ahead. 

But  his  sisters  had  other  ideas.  Their  wing-feathers 
were  growing,  and  they  were  already  beginning  to 
flutter  them.  Perhaps  in  after  years,  whatever  happi- 
ness might  come  to  them — and  all  life  in  the  future  was, 
of  course,  to  be  happy,  as  well  as  much  more  exciting — ■ 
they  too  would  look  back  upon  these  midsummer 
months  with  regret,  and  wish  for  their  childhood  back 


agam. 


A  few  days  later  Joan  and  Nancy  were  taking  a 
country  walk  with  their  dogs.  They  were  about  a  mile 
away  from  Kencote,  when  a  motor-car  came  suddenly 
along  the  road  towards  them,  driven  by  a  smart-looking 
vouncf  man  in  a  screen  hat  and  a  blue  flannel  suit.  The 
girls  were  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  road  holding 
two  of  the  dogs  until  it  should  have  passed,  when  to  their 
surprise  it   sl topped,   and  a  cheerful  voice  called   out, 


28  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Hullo,  Miss  Joan !     Here's  a  piece  of  luck !     I  was 
just  on  my  way  to  see  you." 

Joan  stood  upright  with  a  blush  on  her  face,  which 
she  would  have  preferred  not  to  have  shown,  while  Mr. 
Robert  Trench  jumped  down  from  the  car  and  advanced 
to  shake  hands  with  her.  He  also  shook  hands  with 
Nancy,  remarking  that  he  remembered  her  very  well, 
and  should  have  known  her  anywhere  by  her  likeness  to 
her  sister. 

"  What  remarkable  powers  of  observation  you 
have !  "  observed  Joan,  rallying  her  forces. 

Bobby  Trench  only  grinned  at  her.  "  Chaffing,  as 
usual !  "  he  said.  "  But,  bless  you,  I  don't  mind.  I 
say,  I  suppose  you  have  heard  about  this  beastly  thing 
that  has  happened  at  Brummels — about  my  mother's 
necklace  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Joan. 

"  What,  not  heard  that  it  was  stolen !  Why,  it  was 
when  you  were  staying  in  the  house  too.  Everybody 
is  talking  about  it.  Wherever  have  you  been  burying 
yourself  that  you've  heard  nothing?  " 

"  At  home  at  Kencote,"  replied  Joan.  "  You  don't 
think  I  brought  the  necklace  away  with  me,  do 
you  ^  " 

Bobby  Trench  grinned  again.  "  We  were  talking  it 
over  last  night,"  he  said.  "  I  think  we  have  seen  every- 
body that  was  in  the  house  at  the  time  except  you,  and 
I  said,  '  By  Jove !  I  wonder  whether  Miss  Joan  noticed 
anything  .f^  '  We  don't  want  to  leave  any  stone  un- 
turned, so  I  said  I  would  run  down  and  look  you  all  up. 


A  Vulgar  Theft  29 

It  must  be  years  since  I  came  to  Kencote.       You  were 
both  jolly  littie  kids  then." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Nancy,  "  we  were  fifteen. 
We  weren't  kids  at  all." 

"  I  apologise,"  said  Bobby.  "  Anyhow,  I  thought  it 
was  a  chance  not  to  be  missed.  Now,  did  you  notice 
anything,  Miss  Joan.''  Oh,  I  forgot;  I  haven't  told 
you  the  story  yet." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  do  that  first,"  said  Joan. 
Bobby  Trench  then  told  them  the  story,  and  when  he 
came    to     describe    the    hiding-place     Joan    gave    an 
exclamation. 

"  Is  it  just  where  that  little  Dutch  picture  hangs?  " 
she  asked.  "  The  one  with  the  old  woman  cleaning  a 
copper  pot  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That's  the  place,"  said  Bobby.  "  Why?  Do 
you  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

Joan's  face  was  serious.  "Are  you  quite  sure  that 
Mrs.  Amberley  took  the  necklace?  "  she  asked. 

"  We're  about  as  sure  as  we  could  be,  unless  we  had 
actually  seen  her  doing  it.  I'll  tell  you  what  we  have 
found  out  afterwards.  You  didn't  see  her  opening  the 
cupboard  by  any  chance,  did  you?  " 

Joan  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Nancy  looked  at 
her  with  some  excitement  on  her  face.  "  What  did  you 
see?  "  she  asked. 

Still  Joan  seemed  unwilling  to  speak,  and  Bobby 
Trench  said,  "  If  you  did  see  something,  you  ought  to 
let  us  know.  It's  a  very  serious  business.  The  things 
stolen  are  worth  pots  of  money,  and  we  know  perfectly 


30  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

well  that  it  Ccin  only  be  Mrs.  Amberley  who  has  taken 
them.  Besides,  we've  pretty  well  proved  it  now.  We 
have  found  people  to  whom  she  sold  separate  pearls ; 
but  for  goodness'  sake  don't  let  that  out  yet.  I  only 
tell  you  so  that  you  may  know  that  it  wouldn't  only 
rest  on  you." 

Joan  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I  went  into  the  morn- 
ing-room," she  said,  "  and  Mrs.  Amberley  was  standing 
with  her  back  to  me  by  the  fireplace." 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  Bobby  Trench,  staring  at  her 
as  if  fascinated. 

"  She  turned  sharp  round  when  I  came  in,"  said  Joan, 
"  and  then  she  asked  me  if  I  didn't  love  old  Dutch  pic- 
tures, and  showed  me  that  one.  That  is  why  I  remem- 
bered about  it." 

"  Was  she  actually  looking  at  it  when  you  came 
in.?" 

"Well,  no.  I  don't  think  she  was.  It  was  just  a 
little  to  the  right  of  where  she  was  standing.  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  it,  but  I  remember  now  that  when 
she  mentioned  the  picture  I  thought  to  myself  that  she 
seemed  to  have  been  looking  at  the  bare  panels,  and  not 
at  the  picture  at  all.  Besides,  she  was  blushing  scarlet, 
and  it  was  just  as  if  I  had  caught  her  in  something." 

"By  Jove!  you  must  jolly  nearly  have  caught  her 
with  the  panel  open.  Did  you  notice  anything  odd 
about  the  wall  she  was  standing  in  front  of  as  you  came 
in.?" 

Joan  thought  for  a  moment.  "  No,  I  didn't,"  she 
said  decidedly. 


A  Vulgar  Theft  81 

"  Had  she  got  anything  in  her  hand?  " 

Joan  thought  again.  "  I  didn't  notice,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  believe  she  kept  her  hands  behind  her  while  she 
was  talking  to  me.  She  didn't  talk  long.  Just  as  I 
was  looking  at  the  picture  she  suddenly  said  she  had 
some  letters  to  write,  and  went  out  of  the  room." 

Bobby  Trench,  with  growing  excitement,  asked  h<?r 
further  questions — as  to  the  time  at  which  this  had 
happened,  as  to  the  exact  words  that  Mrs.  Amberley 
had  said. 

"  We've  hit  the  bull's  eye  this  time,"  he  said.  "  What 
a  brilliant  idea  it  was  of  mine  to  come  and  ask  you! 
Look  here,  hadn't  we  better  go  and  talk  to  Mr.  Clinton 
about  it.?  He's  an  old  friend  of  my  father's.  I  expect 
he'll  be  pleased  to  be  able  to  give  us  a  hand  up  over  this 
business." 

*'  I  should  think  he  would  be  delighted,"  said  Nancy 
drily.     "  Will  Joan  have  to  give  evidence  at  a  trial?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  There'll  be  a  trial  all  right.  We've  got 
the  good  lady  sitting,  now.  But  you  won't  mind  that, 
will  you,  Miss  Joan?  If  you'll  both  hop  in,  I'll  drive 
you  back.  We  can  take  the  dogs,  too,  if  you  like.  I 
hope  Mr.  Clinton  will  be  in.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him 
again." 


,  CHAPTER    III 

THE    SQUIRE    IS    DRAWN    IN\ 

If  Bobby  Trench  really  felt  the  pleasure  he  had  ex- 
pressed at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Mr.  Clinton  again, 
it  was  a  sensation  not  shared  by  the  Squire,  when  his 
motor-car  came  swishing  up  the  drive,  and  he  alighted 
from  it  in  company  with  Joan  and  Nancy. 

Some  few  years  before,  Humphrey  CHnton  had 
brought  him  to  Kencote  for  some  winter  balls.  Lady 
Susan  Clinton,  a  distant  connection,  now  Humphrey's 
wife,  and  her  mother,  had  been  members  of  the  house- 
party,  and  trouble  had  ensued.  They  belonged  to  the 
fast  modern  world,  which  the  Squire  abominated.  They 
had  essayed  to  play  Bridge  on  Sunday;  Bobby 
Trench  had  tried  to  get  out  of  going  to  church,  had 
made  havoc  of  punctuality,  had,  in  fact,  seriously  dis- 
turbed the  serene,  self-satisfied  atmosphere  of  Kencote. 
And  the  Squire  had  never  forgiven  him.  He  was  a 
"  young  cub,"  the  sort  of  youth  he  never  wished  to  see 
at  Kencote  again,  outside  the  pale  of  that  God-fearing, 
self-respecting  country  aristocracy  which  was  to  the 
Squire  the  head  and  front  of  all  that  was  most  admi- 
rable and  best  worth  preserving  in  the  body  politic. 

Bobby  Trench  had  been  hardly  less  free  of  criticism 
on  his  own  account.  Kencote  was  a  cemetery  of  the 
dead,  a  little  bit  of  Hampstead  stuck  down  ten  miles 

33 


The  Sqidre  Is  Drawn  In  38 

from  nowhere,  which  came  to  the  same  thing;  its  owner 
was  an  old  clodhopper.  Never  again  would  he  permit 
himself  to  be  inveigled  into  paying  such  a  visit. 

Yet  here  he  was,  advancing  across  the  turf  to  where 
the  tea-table  was  spread  in  the  shade  of  a  great  cedar, 
with  an  ingratiating  smile  on  his  face,  and  apparently 
no  doubt  of  the  prospective  warmth  of  his  welcome. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Clinton?  Years  since  I  saw 
you.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Clinton.^  You  don't  look  a 
day  older.  The  governor  sent  you  messages,  in  case  I 
should  be  lucky  enough  to  see  you.  We  are  all  at  Brum- 
mels  for  the  week-end.  I  started  at  ten  this  morning; 
made  about  a  hundred  miles  of  it ;  lunched  at  Bathgate. 
By  Jove,  you  live  in  a  past  century  here!  Wonderful 
peaceful  country,  but  a  bit  dull,  eh.^  " 

The  Squire  had  somewhat  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise during  this  speech,  and  was  prepared  to  abide  by 
his  principles  of  hospitality,  in  spite  of  his  distaste  for 
Bobby  Trench,  and  all  he  represented.  But  the  last 
comment  aroused  his  resentment,  and  emphasised  the 
distance  that  lay  between  him  and  this  glib  young  man. 

"  We  don't  find  it  dull,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  dare  say 
people  who  spend  their  lives  rushing  about  from  one 
place  to  another  and  never  settling  to  anything  might. 
They  are  welcome  to  their  tastes,  but  the  less  I  have  to 
do  with  them  the  better  I'm  pleased." 

Bobby  Trench  laughed  good-humouredly.  "  Well, 
it's  true  we  are  rather  a  rackety  lot  nowadays,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  know  that  you  haven't  got  the  best  of  it,  after 
all.     I  sometimes  think  I  shouldn't  mind  settling  down 


34  Tlie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

in  the  country  myself,  and  doing  a  bit  of  gardening. 
We've  started  gardening  at  Brummels.  We  quarrel 
like  anything  about  it;  it's  the  greatest  sport.  You 
don't  go  in  for  it  here,  I  see.  But  it's  a  jolly  place. 
You've  got  lots  of  opportunities." 

The  Squire  found  himself  fast  losing  patience.  It 
was  true  that  he  did  not  go  in  for  gardening,  in  the 
modern  way,  judging  that  pursuit  to  be  more  fitted 
for  the  women  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  her 
Spring  garden,  in  which  she  was  allowed  to  have  her 
own  way,  within  limits,  in  the  matter  of  designing  pat- 
terns of  bright-coloured  flowers;  and  she  was  also 
allowed  a  say  in  the  arrangement  of  the  summer  bed- 
ding, as  long  as  she  did  not  interfere  too  much  with 
the  ideas  of  the  head  gardener.  But  as  for  altering 
anything  on  a  large  scale,  or  even  additional  planting 
of  anything  more  permanent  than  spring  or  summer 
flowers,  that  was  not  to  be  heard  of. 

And  yet  the  Squire  did  love  his  garden,  as  he  loved 
everything  else  about  his  home.  He  knew  every  tree 
and  every  shrub  in  it,  and  was  inunensely  proud  of 
the  few  rarities  which  every  old  garden  that  has  at  some 
time  or  other  been  in  possession  of  an  owner  who  has 
taken  a  living  interest  in  it  possesses.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  modern  nurseryman's  catalogue,  but  would 
gratefully  accept  a  cutting  or  a  root  of  something  he 
admired  from  somebody  else's  garden,  and  see  that  it 
was  brought  on  well  and  planted  in  the  right  place. 
He  belonged  to  the  days  of  Will  Wimble,  who  was 
pleased  "  to  carry  a  tulip-root  in  his  pocket  from  one  to 


The  Squire  Is  Dratun  In  So 

another,  or  exchange  a  puppy  between  a  couple  of 
friends  that  lived  perhaps  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the 
county  " ;  and  who  shall  say  that  that  intimate  sort  of 
knowledge  of  an  old-established  garden  gives  less 
pleasure  than  the  constant  changes  which  modern  gar- 
dening involves?  If  his  great  grandfather,  who  had 
called  in  an  eighteenth  century  innovator  to  sweep 
away  the  old  formal  gardens  of  the  Elizabethan  Ken- 
cote,  and  lay  the  ground  they  covered  all  out  afresh, 
had  stayed  his  hand  in  the  same  way,  he  would  have  done 
a  good  deal  better. 

The  Squire  swallowed  a  cup  of  tea  and  rose  from  his 
seat.  "  Well,  I  have  a  great  deal  of  work  to  get 
through,"  he  said,  "  so  I'll  ask  you  to  excuse  me. 
Remember  me  to  your  father.  It's  years  since  we  met, 
but  we  were  a  good  deal  together  as  young  fellows." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  It  was  as  near  a  dismissal  as 
he  could  bring  himself  to  utter  under  the  circumstances. 
He  would  have  liked  to  be  in  a  position  to  tell  Bobby 
Trench  that  he  did  not  want  him  at  Kencote,  and  the 
sooner  he  went  the  better;  but  he  could  not  very  well 
put  his  meaning  into  words. 

"  Oh,  but  wait  a  minute,"  said  the  totally  unabashed 
Bobby.  "  I've  come  over  on  important  business,  Mr. 
Clinton.     I  particularly  want  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

"  Well,  then,  come  into  my  room  when  you  have  had 
your  tea,"  said  the  Squire.  "  One  of  the  girls  will 
show  you  the  way." 

"Well,  it's  about  Miss  Joan  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you,"  persisted  Bobby.     "  Of  course,  you've  heard  of 


36  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

that  unfortunate  business  at  Brummels  when  she  was 
there  a  few  weeks  ago — my  mother's  necklace  being 
stolen,  I  mean." 

The  Squire's  face  showed  rising  temper.  "  I  did  hear 
of  it,"  he  said.  "  Dick  told  me,  and  I  asked  him  par- 
ticularly not  to  say  anything  about  it  to  Joan.  I  don't 
want  my  girls  to  be  mixed  up  in  that  sort  of  thing. 
Have  you  told  her  about  it?  " 

Bobby  Trench,  marking  the  air  of  annoyance,  chose 
to  meet  it  with  diplomatic  lightness.  "  Well,  none  of 
us  want  to  be  mixed  up  with  that  sort  of  thing,"  he  said 
with  a  smile.  "  But  I'm  afraid  we  can't  help  ourselves 
in  this  instance.  Yes,  I  told  Miss  Joan.  Of  course  I 
thought  she  knew." 

The  Squire  sat  down  again,  the  frown  on  his  brow 
heavier  than  ever.  "  I  must  say  it's  very  annoying," 
he  said.  "  To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  I  was 
annoyed  at  my  daughter  being  taken  to  Brummels  at 
all.  Your  father  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  I  should 
say  the  same  to  him.  I  don't  like  the  sort  of  thing 
that  goes  on  in  houses  like  yours,  and  I  don't  want  my 
children  to  know  the  sort  of  people  that  go  to  them.  I 
may  be  old-fashioned ;  I  dare  say  I  am ;  but  to  my  mind 
a  woman  like  that  Mrs.  Amberley  is  no  fit  person  for 
a  young  girl  to  come  into  contact  with,  and " 

"  Well,  you're  about  right  there,"  broke  in  Bobby 
Trench,  who  may  have  been  surprised  at  this  exordium, 
but  was  unwilling  to  have  to  meet  it  directly.  "  She's 
no  fit  person  for  anybody  to  come  in  contact  with,  as 
it  turns  out.     Still,  she's  all  right  in  a  way,  you  know. 


The  Squire  Is  Drawn  In  37 

She  and  my  mother  were  friends  as  girls,  and,  of  course, 
her  people  are  all  right.     We  couldn't  tell  that " 

"  I  don't  care  who  her  people  were,"  interrupted  the 
Squire  in  his  turn.  "She  might  be  a  royal  princess 
for  all  I  care;  I  say  she  would  still  be  a  disreputable 
woman.  What's  happened  since  only  shows  that  she 
will  stick  at  nothing.  I  should  have  objected  just  as 
much  to  a  daughter  of  mine  being  asked  to  meet  her 
if  this  vulgar  theft  hadn't  happened.  In  fact,  I  did 
object.  And  a  good  many  other  people  that  haven't 
got  themselves  into  trouble  by  stealing  necklaces  are 
no  better  than  she  is.  It's  the  whole  state  of  society, 
or  what  is  called  such  nowadays,  that  I  object  to.  I 
won't  have  my  girls  mixing  with  it.  There  are  plenty 
of  good  people  left  who  wouldn't  have  such  women  as 
Mrs.  Amberley  inside  their  houses,  and  they  can  find 
their  friends  amongst  them.  I'm  annoyed  that  you 
should  have  said  anything  to  Joan  about  v.hat  has  hap- 
pened, and  I  don't  want  the  subject  mentioned  again." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Clinton,"  said  Bobby.  "  But 
we  were  bound  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  get  at 
the  truth  of  things;  and  as  it  turns  out  Miss  Joan 
will  be  a  very  valuable  witness  on  our  side.  She  saw  Mrs. 
Amberley  at  the  hiding-place,  and  can  only  just  have  es- 
caped seeing  her  take  out  what  was  in  it.     She ' 

"What's  this.?  "  exclaimed  the  Squire  terrifically. 

Joan  met  his  gaze  unflinchingly.  The  state  of  her 
conscience  being  serene,  she  was  in  truth  rather  enjoymg 
herself,  and  her  father's  asperities  had  long  ceased  to 
terrify  either  her  or  Nancy.    "  I  told  Mr.  Trench  what 


38  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I  saw,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  hadn't  thought  about  it 
before,  because  I  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened." 

"  What  did  you  see?  "  enquired  the  Squire. 

She  told  him.  He  received  the  information  with  a 
snort.  "  You  saw  a  lady  looking  at  a  picture,"  he 
said.  "  What  is  there  in  that  ^  I've  no  doubt  that 
Mrs.  Amberley  did  take  the  necklace,  but  if  she  is 
going  to  be  charged  with  it  there's  not  the  slightest 
necessity  for  your  name  to  be  brought  in  at  all.  What 
you  saw  amounted  to  nothing." 

"  Oh,  but  I  think  it  did,"  said  Bobby  Trench.  "  It 
was  what  she  looked  like  when  Miss  Joan  caught  her. 
You  said  yourself  that  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
doing  something  she  oughtn't  to  have  done,  and  was 
startled  at  your  coming  in,  didn't  you.  Miss  Joan?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Joan.  "It  was  just  like  that.  And 
she  blushed  scarlet,  and  then  ran  away  suddenly." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  her  father,  "  that  you  have 
imagined  all  this,  because  of  what  you  were  told.  You 
think  you  will  gain  importance  by  telling  a  story  of 
that  sort ;  but  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it." 

"  Oh,  father  dear,"  expostulated  Joan,  "  I  wouldn't 
tell  stories,  you  know.  I  haven't  imagined  anything. 
It  was  all  just  as  I  have  said." 

"  Well,  then,  you  had  better  forget  it  as  soon  as  you 
can,"  said  the  Squire,  changing  his  ground.  "  It's  a 
most  unpleasant  subject,  and  I  won't  have  you  talking 
about  it,  do  you  hear.'^ — either  you  or  Nancy.  Now 
mind  what  I  say." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  again,  as  if  the  subject  was 


The  Squire  Is  Drawn  In  39 

finally  disposed  of.  And  again  Bobby  Trench  arrested 
his  departure.  "  I'm  afraid  we  can't  leave  it  like  that, 
you  know,  Mr.  Clinton,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Joan's  evi- 
dence is  of  the  greatest  possible  importance  to  us.  I'm 
bound  to  tell  my  people.  Besides,  surely  3'ou  wouldn't 
want  to  keep  a  fact  like  that  back,  would  you.''  The 
necklace  is  worth  six  or  seven  thousand  pounds,  and  if 
we  bring  the  theft  home  to  Mrs.  Amberley,  ray  mother 
may  get  some  of  the  pearls  back.  We've  already  traced 
some  of  them,  and  know  that  she  has  been  disposing 
of  them  separatel3^" 

"  Tell  your  people  by  all  means,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  But  don't  let  Joan's  name  be  brought  into  the  trial. 
I  insist  upon  that.     I  won't  have  it." 

Bobby  Trench  stared  at  this  exhibition  of  blindness 
to  the  necessities  of  the  case.  He  made  no  reply, 
probably  reflecting  that  the  subpoena  which  would  be 
served  upon  Joan  would  bring  those  necessities  home 
to  the  Squire  as  readily  as  anything,  and  that  it  would 
be  unnecessary  to  bring  additional  wrath  upon  himself 
by  explaining  matters  beforehand. 

It  was  Mrs.  Clinton  who,  observing  his  face,  said, 
"  I  think  Mr.  Trench  means  that  it  will  be  necessary 
for  Joan  to  give  evidence  of  what  she  saw  at  the  trial, 
if  it  comes  to  that,"  she  said. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  bending  his  brows 
upon  her.  "  What  can  you  be  thinking  of  to  suggest 
such  a  thing,  Nina?  A  girl  of  Joan's  age '  to  give 
evidence  at  a  criminal  trial !     A  pretty  idea,  indeed !  " 

He  transferred  his  glare  upon  Bobby,  who  felt  un- 


40  TJie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

comfortable.  "  Absurd  old  creature !  "  was  his  inward 
comment,  but  as  he  made  it  he  looked  at  Joan,  standing 
in  her  white  frock  under  the  shade  of  her  big  hat,  and 
the  picture  she  made  appealed  so  forcibly  to  his 
aesthetic  sense  that  he  was  impelled  to  an  endeavour  to 
put  the  situation  on  a  better  footing.  It  would  never 
do  to  go  away  saying  nothing,  and  then  to  launch  the 
bombshell  of  a  subpoena  into  peaceful,  prejudiced  Ken- 
cote.  It  would  bring  Joan  into  the  witness-box,  but 
it  would  certainly  keep  Bobby  Trench  away  from  her, 
in  the  worst  possible  odour  with  her  resentful  parent. 

"  I  know  it's  a  most  awful  bore,  Mr.  Clinton,"  he 
said.  "  I'll  promise  you  this,  that  if  Miss  Joan  can  be 
kept  out  of  it  in  any  way,  she  shall  be.  I  should  hate 
to  see  her  in  the  court  myself." 

"  You  won't  see  her  there,"  said  the  Squire  deci- 
sively. "  But  you'll  excuse  my  saying  that  it  won't  mat- 
ter to  you  one  way  or  the  other  where  you  see  her.  I 
will  write  to  your  father  about  this  business.  It's  all 
most  infernally  annoying,  and  I  wish  to  goodness  you 
had  kept  away  from  us — although  I  should  have  been 
glad  enough  to  see  you  here  if  this  hadn't  happened." 

The  last  statement  was  not  in  the  least  true,  but  was 
drawn  from  liim  by  the  contest  going  on  in  his  mind  be- 
tween his  strong  dislike  of  Bobby  Trench  and  his  sense 
of  what  was  required  of  him  towards  a  guest.  He  com- 
pelled himself  to  shake  hands  of  farewell,  and  marched 
into  the  house,  the  set  of  his  back  and  the  way  he  held 
his  head  indicating  plainly  that  he  would  give  free  rein 
to  the  acute  irritation  he  was  feeling  when  he  got  there. 


The  Squire  Is  Drawn  In  41 

There  was  a  pause  when  he  had  disappeared  through 
the  windows  of  the  Hbrarj,  and  then  Mrs.  Chnton  asked 
quietly,  "  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of  Joan  not 
being  required  to  give  evidence  at  the  trial?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  exactly  how  it  is,  Mrs.  Clinton," 
said  Bobby,  relieved  at  being  able  to  address  himself 
to  somebody  who  was  apparently  capable  of  accepting 
facts.  "  If  Mrs.  Amberley  would  admit  that  she  had 
stolen  the  necklace,  and  give  back  the  pearls  she  hadn't 
made  away  with,  we  should  drop  it,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  any  more  bother.  But  I'm  bound  to  say  that  I  don't 
think  she  will  now.  It's  gone  too  far.  She  brazened 
it  out  when  my  father  and  mother  charged  her  with  it, 
and  she'll  go  on  brazening  it  out.  I  think  it  is  bound 
to  come  into  the  courts." 

"  Will  she  be  charged  with  the  theft?  " 

"  That's  not  quite  settled  on.  She  threatened  to 
bring  an  action  against  us  if  we  talked  about  it.  And, 
of  course,  we  have  talked.  We  are  quite  ready  to  meet 
her  action,  and  would  rather  it  came  on  in  that  way. 
But  if  she  doesn't  make  a  move  soon,  we  shall  be  obliged 
to.  It  will  be  the  only  chance  of  getting  anything 
back.  We  have  had  detectives  working,  and  it  is  quite 
certain  that  she  has  sold  pearls  in  Paris  within  the  last 
month.  They  are  ready  to  swear  to  her.  She  has 
pawned  one  in  London,  too — in  the  city.  So  you  see 
we're  quite  certain  about  her.  Yet  it  would  only  be 
circumstantial  evidence,  for,  of  course,  nobody  could 
swear  to  separate  pearls ;  and  she  might  get  off.  What 
Miss   Joan   saw  would   clinch  it.     I'm   awfully   sorry 


42  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

about  it,  since  Mr.  Clinton  feels  as  he  does,  but  I'm 
bound  to  say  that  I  think  she  ought  to  be  prepared  to 
give  her  evidence.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  on  us  to  hold 
it  back,  even  if  it  was  possible — now  would  it.^^" 

Mrs.  Clinton  seemed  unwilling  to  express  an  opinion, 
but  she  told  her  husband  later  on,  when  Bobby  Trench 
had  taken  himself  off,  that  she  feared  there  would  be 
no  help  for  it,  Joan  would  have  to  give  her  evidence, 
whether  they  liked  it  or  no. 

And  so  it  proved.  In  answer  to  his  letter  to  Lord 
Sedbergh,  the  Squire  received  an  intimation  from  his 
old  friend  that  they  had  decided  to  prosecute  at  once. 
They  had  learnt  that  Mrs.  Amberley,  who  was  getting 
cold-shouldered  everywhere,  was  making  arrangements 
to  leave  England  altogether.  They  were  on  the  point 
of  having  her  arrested.  He  was  very  sorry  that  a  girl 
of  Joan's  age  should  be  mixed  up  in  such  an  unpleasant 
affair,  but  it  must  be  plain  that  her  evidence  could 
not  be  dispensed  with,  and  he  hoped  that,  after  all,  the 
ordeal  might  not  be  such  a  very  trying  one  for  her. 
She  would  only  have  to  tell  her  story  and  stick  to  it. 
Everything  should  be  done  on  their  side  that  was  pos- 
sible to  make  things  easy  for  her,  and  the  affair  would 
soon  blow  over. 

The  Squire,  raging  inwardly  and  outwardlj^  had  to 
bow  to  circumstances.  The  day  after  he  had  received 
Lord  Sedbergh's  letter  a  summons  came  for  Joan  to 
present  herself  at  a  certain  police  court,  and  he  and 
Mrs.  Clinton  took  her  up  to  London  the  same  after- 
noon. 


CHAPTER    IV 


JOAN    GIVES    HER    EVIDENCE 


The  June  sunshine,  beating  through  the  dusty  windows 
of  the  Police  Court,  fell  upon  a  very  different  assembly 
from  that  which  was  usually  to  be  found  in  that  place 
of  mean  omen. 

The  gay  London  crowd  that  was  accustomed  to 
pass  continuously  within  a  stone's  throw  of  its  walls, 
without  giving  a  thought  to  those  dubious  stories  of 
the  underworld  which  were  daily  elucidated  there,  had 
made  of  it  the  centre  of  their  interest  this  morning. 
Many  more  than  could  be  accommodated  had  sought  for 
admission,  in  order  to  witness  a  scene  in  which  the 
parts  would  be  taken,  not  by  the  squalid  professionals 
of  crime,  but  by  amateurs  of  their  own  high  standing. 
The  seed}'^  loafers  who  were  accustomed  to  congregate 
there  had  been  shouldered  out  by  a  fashionable  crowd, 
amongst  which  the  actors  who  were  to  take  part  in 
the  play  found  themselves  the  objects  of  attentions 
which  some  of  them  could  well  have  dispensed  with. 

Joan  sat  between  her  father  and  mother,  outwardly 
subdued,  inwardly  deeply  interested.  Behind  the  nat- 
ural shrinking  of  a  young  girl,  compelled  to  stand 
up  and  be  questioned  in  public,  there  was  the  pluck 
of  her  race  to  support  her.  It  would  not  be  worse  than 
jhaving  a  tooth  stopped,  and  that  prospect  had  never 

43 


44  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

deterred  her  from  appreciation  of  the  illustrated  papers 
in  the  dentist's  waiting-room.  So  now  she  sat  absorbed 
by  the  expectation  of  what  was  about  to  happen,  and 
felt  exactly  as  if  she  were  waiting  for  the  curtain  to 
go  up  on  the  first  scene  of  a  play  she  eagerly  wanted 
to  see. 

She  had  almost  come  to  feel  as  if  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  London  to  be  accused  of  a  crime  herself. 
Her  father  had  been  very  trying,  continually  harping 
back  upon  that  old  grievance  of  her  having  gone  to 
Brummels  in  the  first  instance,  and  adding  to  it  irritable 
censure  of  her  fault  in  unburdening  herself  to  Bobby 
Trench  without  consulting  him  beforehand.  She  held 
herself  free  of  offence  on  either  count,  but  had  diplo- 
matically refrained  from  asserting  her  innocence,  to 
avoid  still  further  arraignment.  She  had  been  inun- 
dated with  instructions,  often  contradictory,  as  to  how 
she  should  act  and  speak  in  the  ordeal  that  lay  before 
her;  and  if  she  had  been  of  a  nervous  temperament 
might  well  have  been  driven  into  a  panic  long  before 
she  had  come  within  measurable  distance  of  under- 
going it,  and  thus  have  acquitted  herself  in  such  a  way 
as  to  draw  an  entirely  new  range  of  rebukes  upon  her 
head.  Her  mother  had  simply  told  her  that  she  must 
think  before  she  said  anything,  and  not  say  more  than 
was  necessary ;  and  her  uncle,  the  Judge,  at  whose  house 
they  were  staying,  had  repeated  much  the  same  advice, 
and  had  made  light  of  what  she  would  have  to  undergo. 
So,  with  her  mind  not  greatly  disturbed  on  that  score, 
she  felt   a   sense   of   relief   at   being  now   beyond   her 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  45 

father's  fussy  attempts  to  blame  and  direct  her  at  the 
same  time,  and  able  to  turn  her  mind  to  the  interests 
at  hand. 

The  Squire  would  probably,  even  now,  have  been  at 
her  ear  with  repetitions  of  oft-given  advice  had  not 
his  own  ear  been  engaged  by  Lord  Sedbergh,  who  sat 
on  the  other  side  of  him. 

Lord  Sedbergh  was  an  amiable,  easy-going  nobleman, 
not  without  some  force  of  character,  but  too  well  off 
and  indolent  to  care  to  exercise  it  in  opposition  to  the 
society  in  which  circumstances  compelled  him  to  move. 
He  and  the  Squire  had  been  friends  at  Eton,  and  also 
at  Cambridge,  after  which  Lord  Sedbergh  had  em- 
braced a  diplomatic  career,  until  such  time  as  he  had 
succeeded  to  the  family  honours,  while  Edward  Clinton, 
after  a  brief  period  of  metropolitan  glory  as  a  comet 
in  the  Royal  Horse  Guards,  had  married  early  and 
settled  down  to  a  life  of  undiluted  squiredom.  The  two 
had  actually  never  met  for  over  thirty  years,  and  were 
now  discovering  that  their  youthful  intimacy  had  not 
entirely  evaporated  during  that  period.  At  a  moment 
more  free  from  preoccupation  they  would  have  em- 
barked on  reminiscences  which  would  have  shed  con- 
siderable warmth  on  this  late  meeting;  and  even  as  it 
was  the  Squire  felt  that  his  old  friend  was  still  a 
friend,  and  that  it  was  not  such  a  bad  thing  after  all 
to  be  in  a  position  to  lend  strength  to  his  just  cause. 

"  That's  a  very  charming  girl  of  yours;  Edward," 
Lord  Sedbergh  was  saying.  "Bright  and  clever  and 
pretty  without  being  spoilt,  as  young  women  so  quickly 


46  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

are  now-a-days.  We  made  great  friends,  she  and  I, 
when  she  stayed  with  us.  I  wish  we  could  have  spared 
her  this,  but  I  don't  think  she  will  be  much  bothered. 
They  are  bound  to  send  the  case  for  trial,  and  I  should 
think  the  lady  would  reserve  any  defence  she  may  have 
thought  of  putting  up.  Still,  I  don't  like  to  see  young 
girls  brought  into  a  business  of  this  sort,  and  if  we 
could  have  done  without  little  Joan's  evidence  I  should 
have  been  pleased." 

The  Squire  was  soothed  by  the  expression  of  this 
very  proper  spirit,  and  after  a  little  further  conversa- 
tion was  even  inclined  to  think  with  less  annoyance  of 
Joan's  disastrous  visit  to  Brummels,  since  the  owner  of 
that  house  was  apparently  sane  and  right-minded,  what- 
ever might  be  said  of  his  family  and  their  associates. 

"  My  boy  Bobby,"  said  Lord  Sedbergh,  "  has  thrown 
himself  into  clearing  this  up  heart  and  soul.  He  has  a 
head  on  his  shoulders,  and  I  doubt  if  we  should  have 
been  in  the  position  we  are  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him." 

But  the  Squire  was  still  incensed  against  Bobby 
Trench,  and  was  not  prepared  to  give  him  credit  for 
being  anything  but  the  shallow-pated  young  fool  with 
the  over-free  manners  who  had  figured  so  frequently  of 
late  in  his  diatribes.  He  might  have  given  some  expres- 
sion to  this  view  of  his  friend's  son,  for  he  had  not  been 
accustomed  in  those  early  years  of  comradeship  to  hold 
back  his  opinions,  and  he  was  getting  to  feel  more  than 
ever  that  time  and  absence  liad  wrought  little  change 
between  them.  But  at  this  moment  the  curtain  rang 
up  for  the  play,  and  his  attention  was  diverted. 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  47 

There  was  something  of  a  sensation  when  Mrs.  Am- 
berky  stood  up  before  the  Court  ready  to  meet  her 
accusers.  The  Squire's  face,  as  he  set  eyes  upon  her 
for  the  first  time,  expressed  surprise,  condemnation,  and 
disgust.  The  surprise  was  at  the  appearance  of  a 
woman  of  striking  if  somewhat  strange  and  to  him 
repellent  beauty,  whose  eyes  and  cheeks  flamed  indig- 
nant protest  against  her  situation,  when  he  had  expected 
to  see  some  sort  of  haggard  siren  in  an  attitude  com- 
bined of  shame  and  impudence.  The  condemnation  was 
directed  against  her  air  of  arrogant  scorn,  and  the  bold 
way  in  which  she  looked  round  upon  the  assembled 
throng,  allowing  her  gaze  to  rest  upon  those  who  had 
brought  her  there  in  such  a  way  that  she  seemed  to 
be  the  accuser  and  they  the  accused,  and  Lady  Sedbergh 
for  one  dropped  her  eyes,  unable  to  meet  it.  The  dis- 
gust was  at  her  appearance  and  attire,  which  seemed 
to  the  Squire  a  bold  flaunting  of  impudent  wickedness 
in  face  of  highly-placed  respectability,  as  represented 
by  the  wives  of  people  like  himself,  who  were  not 
ashamed  to  show  the  years  which  the  Almighty  had 
caused  to  pass  over  their  heads,  and  wore  clothes  which 
might  indicate  their  rank,  but  were  not  intended  to 
exhibit  the  unholy  seductions  of  sex. 

Joan,  with  the  merciless  arrogance  of  youth,  had  said 
that  Mrs.  Amberley  had  struck  her  as  being  old.  She 
would  not  have  said  so  if  she  had  seen  her  now  for  the 
first  time.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  art,  or  to  the 
stimulating  flame  of  her  indignation,  her  face  showed 
none  of  the  ravages  of  years.     If  that  was  owing  to 


48  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

art  alone,  it  was  supreme  art,  for  on  a  skin  that  was 
almost  ivory  in  its  pallor  the  flush  stood,  not  crudely 
contrasted,  but  as  if  a  rare  variant  of  that  strange 
whiteness.  The  great  masses  of  her  dull  red  hair  even 
Lady  Sedbergh,  now  violently  antagonistic  to  her,  must 
have  acknowledged  herself  familiar  with  from  before 
a  time  when  art  would  have  been  brought  to  their  pro- 
duction, whatever  share  it  may  have  had  now  in  pre- 
serving their  arresting  effect.  Her  figure,  in  a  gown 
of  clear  green,  had  all  the  slim  suppleness  of  youth ; 
her  great  black  hat  with  its  heavy  plumes,  might  have 
been  worn  by  Joan  herself.  And  yet,  if  she  did  not 
look  old,  or  even  middle-aged,  still  less  did  she  look 
young.  Her  eager  lustrous  eyes  had  seen  the  weariness 
of  life  as  well  as  its  consuming  pleasures,  and  could 
not  hide  their  knowledge ;  the  lines  of  her  face,  delicate 
enough,  were  not  those  of  youth. 

When  the  preliminaries  had  been  gone  through,  Lady 
Sedbergh  had  to  tell  her  story,  which  she  did  with  a 
jumpy  loquacity  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  whatever 
benefit  she  had  obtained  from  her  late  rest-cure  had  by 
this  time  evaporated. 

The  gist  of  it  was  that  she  and  Mrs.  Amberley  had 
been  discussing  jewel  robberies,  and  Mrs.  Amberley  had 
said  that  no  place  was  safe  for  jewels  if  a  clever  thief 
was  determined  to  get  hold  of  them.  They  had  been 
sitting  by  the  morning-room  fire,  and  the  hiding-place 
in  which  she  had  always  kept  her  own  more  valuable 
jewels  was  just  at  her  side.  She  had  not  been  able  to 
refrain    from    mentioning    it,    and    showing,    under   a 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  49 

promise  of  secrecy,  where  it  was.  You  pressed  a  spring 
in  the  panelling,  and  found  a  recess  in  the  stone  of  the 
thick  wall  behind.  That  might  well  have  been  dis- 
covered by  chance ;  but  what  no  one  who  did  not  know 
of  the  secret  would  expect  was  that,  by  turning  one 
of  the  solid-looking  stones  on  a  pivot,  a  further  recep- 
tacle was  disclosed.  No  one  had  known  of  this  but 
herself  and  husband,  until  she  had  told  Mrs.  Amberley. 

She  was  accustomed  to  carry  her  more  valuable  jewels 
with  her  wherever  she  went,  especially  the  pearl  necklace, 
and  the  diamond  star,  which  had  also  been  stolen.  This 
she  valued  for  sentimental  reasons,  which  she  did  not 
disclose  to  the  Court.  They  were  both  in  the  secret 
receptacle  when  she  showed  it  to  Mrs.  Amberley, 
as  well  as  a  few  other  cases  containing  more  or  less 
valuable  jewels,  none  of  which  had  been  taken. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  her  party  was  to  break 
up  that  she  had  showed  Mrs.  Amberley  her  hiding-place. 
She  had  not  worn  any  of  the  jewels  she  had  put  there 
that  evening,  nor  visited  it  again  until  a  month  later, 
when  she  was  about  to  return  to  London.  Then  she 
had  missed  the  necklace  and  the  star.  She  had  sent  a 
telegram  to  her  husband,  who  had  come  down  at  once, 
and  after  hearing  her  story  had  gone  to  see  Mrs. 
Amberle}^  with  her.  Neither  of  them  had  any  doubt 
that  she  was  the  only  person  who  could  possibly  have 
taken  the  jewels,  as  she  was  the  only  person  who  knew 
where  they  were  kept. 

"  Have  you  any  questions  to  ask  of  the  witness  ?  " 

"Yes." 


50  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 


Mrs.  Amberley  spoke  in  a  low-pitched  vibrating 
voice.  She  was  completely  at  her  ease,  and  the  con- 
temptuous tone  in  which  she  asked  her  questions,  and 
the  significant  pauses  which  she  made  after  each  con- 
fused voluble  reply,  not  commenting  upon  it,  but 
passing  on  to  the  next  question,  would  have  been 
effective  if  she  had  been  a  skilled  criminal  lawyer,  and 
was  much  more  so  considering  what  she  was  and  what 
she  had  at  stake. 

"  We  have  been  intimate  friends  all  our  lives,  you  and 
I,  haven't  we  ?  " 

Lady  Sedbergh  admitted  it,  but  explained  that  she 
would  never  have  made  an  intimate  friend  of  anyone 
who  would  behave  in  that  way,  if  she  had  known  what 
she  was  really  like. 

She  was  permitted  to  have  her  say  out,  with  those 
scornful  eyes  fixed  on  her,  until  she  trailed  off  into 
ineffective  silence,  when  the  next  question  came. 

"  What  was  the  first  thing  that  I  said  to  you  when 
you  had  shown  me  the  cupboard,  and  shut  it  up 
again?  " 

It  needed  more  than  one  intervention  on  the  part 
of  the  magistrate  before  it  was  elicited  that  Mrs.  Am- 
berley had  said,  "  Well,  now,  if  anything  happens  you 
can't  accuse  me.  You  would  know  I  should  be  the  last 
person."  Lady  Sedbergh  volunteered  the  additional 
information  that  she  had  remembered  those  words,  and 
even  repeated  them  to  her  husband,  but  added  that 
she  put  them  down  to  Mrs.  Amberley's  cunning. 

"  But  isn't  it  true  that  if  I  had  stolen  your  necklace 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  51 

I  should  have  known  positively  that  you  would  have 
suspected  me  at  once?" 

No  volubility  would  disguise  the  truth  of  that,  and 
it  had  what  weight  it  deserved. 

Mrs.  Amberley  asked  no  more  questions,  but  her 
solicitor  cross-examined  Lady  Sedbergh  as  to  the  means 
she  had  taken  to  preserve  the  knowledge  of  the  hiding- 
place  from  her  own  maid,  for  instance,  or  from  the  other 
servants  of  the  house.  He  made  it  appear  rather  absurd 
that  in  a  great  house,  overrun  with  servants,  like 
Brummels,  she  could  always  have  carried  cases  of  jewels 
to  and  fro  without  being  observed,  or  that  her  own 
maid  would  have  had  no  curiosity  as  to  where  she  kept 
them.  The  poor  lady  explained  eagerly  that  she  seldom 
wore  the  things  she  kept  in  her  hiding-place  when  she 
was  in  the  country,  and  that  there  was  a  safe  in  her  hus- 
band's room  in  which  she  was  supposed  to  keep  what 
valuables  she  did  not  keep  upstairs ;  but  she  explained  so 
much  and  so  incoherently  that  it  had  small  effect  in 
view  of  his  persistence.  It  did  seem  rather  absurd  to 
everybody  when  her  cross-examination  was  over,  that 
anyone  so  foolish  as  she  should  have  been  able  for  so 
long  to  keep  such  a  secret  from  everybody  about  her, 
especially  in  view  of  the  irresponsible  and  causeless 
way  in  which  she  was  shown  finally  to  have  let  it  out. 
If  the  case  had  rested  on  her  testimony  alone,  Mrs. 
Amberley  would  have  been  acquitted,  with  hardly  an 
additional  stain  on  her  character. 

Joan,  standing  up  bravely  in  her  fresh  girlhood  to 
tell  her  story,  was  far  more  damaging.     Between  Mrs. 


52  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Amberlejj  completely  self-possessed,  and  showing  indig- 
nation only  by  the  vibrations  of  her  low  voice, 
and  Lady  Sedbergh,  with  her  flurried,  rather  pathetic 
efforts  to  put  herself  everywhere  in  the  right,  the 
advantage  was  on  the  side  of  the  ac-cused.  She  had 
no  such  foil  in  the  frank  bearing  of  the  3'Oung  girl, 
whose  delicate  bloom  contrasted  w^ith  her  own  exotic 
beauty  only  to  show  that  whatever  quality  it  may  have 
had  was  not  that  of  innocence.  Joan  repeated  what  she 
had  told  Bobby  Trench,  in  much  the  same  words,  and 
the  only  discount  that  could  be  taken  off  her  evidence 
was  the  admission  that  she  had  thought  nothing  of  it 
at  all  until  after  she  had  been  told  of  what  Mrs. 
Amberley  was  suspected. 

It  was  when  she  was  just  about  to  leave  the  witness- 
stand,  and  the  Squire,  who  had  been  following  the 
process  of  question  and  answer  with  spasms  of  nervous- 
ness at  each  fresh  speech,  was  beginning  to  breathe 
freely  once  more,  that  Mrs.  Amberley  looked  at  her 
with  a  glance  from  which,  with  all  her  care  to  avoid  the 
expression  of  feeling,  she  could  not  banish  the  malice, 
and  asked  her,  "  Would  you  have  said  what  you  did 
if  it  had  been  anybody  but  Mr.  Trench  who  asked 
you?  " 

The  insinuation  was  plain  enough,  and  Joan  met  it 
with  a  warm  blush  which  she  would  have  given  worlds 
to  have  been  able  to  hold  back.  She  felt  the  blood 
warming  and  reddening  her  cheeks  and  her  neck,  but 
she  answered  immediately  in  spite  of  it,  "  It  was  my 
sister  who  asked  me  what  I  had  seen,  when  Mr.  Trench 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  53 

told  us  both  of  what  you  were  suspected";  and  Mrs. 
Amberley  let  the  answer  pass,  with  an  air  of  not  findinjL^ 
it  worth  while  to  take  further  notice  of  such  a  childish 

person. 

Joan  made  her  way  back  to  her  seat  between  her 
father  and  mother,  the  blush  slowly  fading  from  her 
cheeks.  She  felt  outraged  at  having  had  such  a  ques- 
tion put  to  her,  and  in  such  a  tone,  before  all  these 
knowing,  sniggering  people;  and  her  distress  was  not 
lightened  by  her  father  saying  to  her  in  an  angry 
whisper,  "There  now,  you  see  what  comes  of  making 
yourself  free  in  that  sort  of  company."  He  added, 
"  Confound  the  woman's  impudence !  "  in  a  tone  still 
more  angry,  which  took  off  a  little  of  the  edge  of  his 
previous  speech ;  and  Mrs.  Clinton  took  Joan's  hand  in 
hers  and  pressed  it.  So  presently  she  recovered  her 
equanimity,  and  only  blushed  interaiittently  when  she 
remembered  what  had  been  said  to  her. 

A  French  jeweller  gave  evidence  of  Mrs.  Amberley 
having  sold  pearls  to  him  in  Paris.  She  had  been 
veiled  and  hooded,  but  he  was  sure  it  was  the  same 
lady.  He  should  have  recognised  her  by  her  voice 
alone.  He  gave  the  dates  of  the  transactions,  three 
in  number;  and  other  evidence  was  duly  brought  for- 
ward to  show  that  Mrs.  Amberley  had  been  in  Paris 
on  each  of  those  dates. 

A  London  pawnbroker's  assistant  gave  evidence  of 
her  having  pawned  a  single  pearl,  which  he  produced. 
She  had  done  it  in  her  own  name.  He  proved  to  be  an 
indecisive    witness    under    the    pressure    of    Mrs.    Am- 


54  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

berlej's  lawyer,  and  said  he  was  not  sure  now  that  it 
was  the  same  lady,  although  he  was  nearly  sure.  But 
there  was  the  transaction  duly  recorded,  and  Mrs.  Am- 
berley's  name  and  London  address  entered  in  his  books 
at  the  time.  Asked  whether  he  thought  it  likely  that 
a  lady  who  was  pawning  stolen  property,  obviously  with 
no  idea  of  redeeming  it,  would  give  her  own  well-known 
name  and  address,  he  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to 
answer  very  properly  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
what  was  likely  or  unlikely ;  there  was  his  book. 

When  all  the  witnesses  had  been  examined,  Mrs. 
Amberley's  lawyer  said  that  he  should  not  oppose  the 
case  going  for  trial.  He  had  advised  his  client  to 
reserve  her  defence,  but  he  might  say  that  she  had  a 
full  and  convincing  answer  to  the  charge. 

When  Mrs.  Amberley  had  been  duly  committed  for 
trial,  there  was  a  wrangle  as  to  her  being  admitted  to 
bail.  It  was  stated  in  opposition  that  she  was  known 
to  have  contemplated  leaving  the  country ;  she  had  in 
no  way  met  the  convincing  evidence  that  had  been 
brought  against  her,  and  in  view  of  the  gravity  of  the 
offence,  &c.,  &c.  Finally,  she  was  admitted  to  bail 
on  heavy  securities,  which  were  immediately  forthcom- 
ing. One  of  them  was  offered  by  Sir  Roger  Amberley, 
her  late  husband's  father,  an  old  man  who  looked  bowed 
down  by  shame;  the  other  by  Lord  Colne,  an  elderly 
roue,  who,  so  far  from  showing  shame,  appeared  proud 
of  his  position  as  friend  and  supporter  of  the  accused 
lady.  Mrs.  Amberley  left  the  court  with  her  father- 
in-law,  and  some  who  were  within   hearinsj  when  she 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  55 

thanked  her  other  sponsor  remarked  that  he  did  not 
seem  Hkely  to  get  much  change  out  of  his  liability  of 
two  thousand  pounds. 

The  Squire,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  lunched  at 
the  extremel}'  private  hotel  which  he  had  patronised  all 
his  life,  and  left  London  for  Kencote  by  an  early  after- 
noon train.  They  were  accompanied  by  Humphrey  and 
Lady  Susan  Clinton,  who  had  paid  no  visit  to  Kencote 
since  they  had  committed  the  fault  of  taking  Joan  to 
Brummels;  and  would  not  have  paid  the  visit  now  if 
they  could  have  got  out  of  it. 

But  the  Squire  had  insisted.  He  had  sent  Mrs. 
Clinton  and  Joan  on  to  his  brother-in-law's  house  on 
their  arrival  in  London  the  afternoon  before,  and  .had 
gone  himself  to  his  son's  flat,  with  the  object  of  un- 
burdening his  mind  both  to  Humplirey  and  his  wife. 
But  Humphrey  and  Susan  had  been  out.  He  had 
waited  for  an  hour,  getting  more  and  more  angry,  and 
convinced  that  they  were  seeking  to  evade  him.  He 
had  then  written  a  peremptory  note,  ordering  them  to 
join  him  at  the  station  on  the  following  afternoon, 
ready  to  go  down  to  Kencote,  with  instructions  to  wire 
acquiescence  immediately  on  receipt  of  the  order. 

The  wire  had  arrived  at  his  brother-in-law's  house 
before  he  had  reached  it.  "  Exceedingly  sorry  to  have 
missed  you.  Both  delighted  come  Kencote  to-morrow. 
Humphrey." 

The  uncalled  for  expression  of  delight  had  not  in 
the  least  softened  his  mood  of  anger,  but  he  had  gained 
a  grim  satisfaction  from  feeling  that  his  word  was  law 


56  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

if  he  chose  to  make  it  so.  This  was  added  to  by  the 
determination  to  make  the  visit  anything  but  an  occa- 
sion of  dehght,  and  the  anticipation  of  having  some- 
body fresh  on  whom  to  wreak  his  anger ;  the  satisfaction 
of  relieving  his  feelings  by  censure  of  Joan  having  now 
begun  to  wear  rather  thin. 

If  Plumphrey  was  bent  on  smoothing  out  the  situa- 
tion, as  was  probably  the  case,  it  was  impolitic  of  him 
to  bring  his  own  man  to  Kencote  as  well  as  his  wife's 
maid.  The  Squire  himself  never  took  a  man  away  with 
him,  except  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  he  went 
anywhere  to  shoot,  and  Humphrey's  servant  was  an 
additional  offence.  The  Squire's  temper  was  not  im- 
proved when  Humphrey,  relieved  of  all  anxieties  about 
luggage  and  tickets  and  the  rest  of  it,  strolled  up  to 
him  on  the  platform,  dressed  in  the  latest  variety  of 
summer  country  clothes,  with  the  correct  thing  in  spats, 
and  the  most  modern  shade  in  soft  felt  hats,  and  found 
him  fussing  over  details  that  he  might  safely  have  left 
to  Mrs.  Clinton's  capable  maid. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,"  he  said  ungraciously.  "  If 
you're  quite  sure  that  your  fellow  has  done  everything 
for  your  own  comfort,  you  might  tell  him  to  help 
Parker  with  those  things.  I've  engaged  a  carriage, 
but  if  I  had  thought  you  couldn't  travel  without  your 
whole  establishment  I'd  have  told  'em  to  put  on  a 
saloon." 

"  We've  left  the  cook  and  the  housemaid  behind," 
said  Humphrey,  outwardly  undisturbed.  "  Here,  Grant, 
take  these  things  into  your  carriage." 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  57 

The  Squire  turned  his  back  and  went  up  to  the  com- 
partment at  which  his  wife  was  standing  with  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law and  Joan.  "  Better  get  in.  Better  get  in," 
he  said.  "  We  don't  want  to  be  left  behind.  How  are 
jou,  Susan .^  We've  just  had  a  pleasant  result  from 
your  taking  Joan  into  the  company  of  people  like  3'our 
precious  Mrs.  Amberley." 

Lady  Susan  made  no  attempt  to  avert  his  displeasure, 
which  had  evidently  worked  itself  up  to  a  point  at  which 
it  must  have  immediate  vent.  She  shook  hands  with 
him,  and  got  into  the  carriage  after  Mrs.  Clinton.  She 
was  a  tall,  fashionably-dressed  woman,  with  a  young, 
rather  foolish  face,  not  remarkably  good-looking,  but 
making  the  most  of  such  points  as  she  possessed.  The 
Squire  rather  liked  her,  in  spite  of  his  disapproval  of 
many  of  her  ways,  partly  because  she  had  always 
treated  him  with  deference,  partly — although  he  would 
indignantly  and  conscientiously  have  denied  it — because 
her  title  was  a  suitable  ornament  to  the  name  she  bore. 
He  himself  was  the  head  of  the  family  of  which  hers 
was  a  junior  branch,  but  that  branch  had  been  ennobled 
at  a  date  of  quite  respectable  antiquity,  and  an  Earl's 
daughter  is  an  Earl's  daughter  wherever  she  may  be 
found.  The  mild  degree  of  satisfaction,  however,  that 
he  felt  on  this  head  was  quite  sub-conscious,  and  did 
not  lead  him  to  pay  any  more  deference  to  Lady  Susan 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  pay  to  the  rest  of  the 
women  of  his  family.  The  only  lady  in  that  position 
whom  he  treated  with  marked  deference  was  the  wife 
of  his  eldest  son,  who  was  ^.n  American,  of  no  ancestry 


58  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

that  he  would  have  recognised  as  significant,  who  had 
once  for  a  short  period  lowered  even  the  ancestry  she 
could  claim  by  dancing  on  the  stage.  That  story  has 
been  told  elsewhere,  and  if  the  reader  is  inclined  to 
cry  snob,  because  the  Squire  is  admitted  to  have  been 
pleased  that  one  of  his  daughters-in-law  bore  a  title, 
let  it  be  considered  that  Virginia,  Dick's  wife,  had 
made  a  complete  conquest  of  him,  and  that  he  valued 
her  little  finger  above  Lady  Susan's  body. 

He  began  directly  the  train  had  started.  "  Now 
look  here,  I've  got  a  word  to  say  to  you  two,  and  I 
may  as  well  say  it  at  once  and  get  it  over." 

Humphrey,  knowing  that  it  was  bound  to  come,  was 
quite  ready,  but  was  also  aware  that  to  get  it  over 
was  really  the  last  thing  his  father  wanted.  Whatever 
attitude  he  might  take  upon  the  subject,  it  would  be 
returned  to  again  and  again  as  long  as  his  visit  to  the 
paternal  mansion  should  last.  The  best  he  could  do 
was  to  get  it  over  for  the  time  being,  and  gain  a  respite 
in  which  to  read  the  "  Field "  and  the  other  papers 
with  which  he  had  provided  himself.  To  this  end  he 
put  up  no  opposition,  but  admitted  with  grave  face 
that  he  and  his  wife  had  done  wrong,  and  agreed  that 
subsequent  events  proved  that  they  had  done  very 
wrong  indeed. 

The  Squire  would  perhaps  have  preferred  to  have 
his  annoyance  warmed  up  by  a  difference  of  opinion, 
and  was  obliged  to  express  it  with  all  the  more  force, 
so  that  it  might  spontaneously  acquire  the  requisite 
amount  of  heat. 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  59 

The  end  of  it  was  rather  surprising.  He  was  getting 
along  swimmingl}',  on  a  high  note  of  displeasure,  when 
he  was  brought  to  a  sudden  stop  by  Lady  Susan  burst- 
ing into  tears. 

Now  tears  from  a  woman  were  what  the  Squire  never 
could  stand.  He  was  essentially  kind,  and  even  tender- 
hearted, in  spite  of  his  usual  attitude  of  irritable 
authority,  and,  since  he  had  never  lived  with  women 
who  cried  easily,  he  took  tears  from  them  very  seriously. 
They  meant,  of  course,  for  one  thing,  complete  capitu- 
lation ;  for  of  tears  of  mere  temper  he  had  had  no 
experience  whatever ;  and  they  appealed  to  his  chivalry 
as  emphasising  the  weakness  of  the  vessels  from  which 
they  came. 

"  Oh,  come  now !  "  he  said  soothingly,  and  with  an 
expression  of  discomfort.  "  No  need  to  cry  over  it. 
It's  over  and  done  with  for  the  present,  and  now  I've 
pointed  out  quietly  what  a  wrong  thing  it  was,  I'm  quite 
sure  it  won't  be  repeated." 

But  Susan  still  continued  to  sob  freely,  and  Hum- 
phrey said  with  some  indignation,  "  She's  very  much 
upset  at  what's  happened.  She's  taken  it  much  more 
to  heart  than  you  think.  It  doesn't  want  rubbing  in 
any  more." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I've  said  enough,"  admitted  the 
Squire,  "  but  you've  got  to  consider  that  we  haven't 
done  with  this  business  yet.  We  shall  have  it  hanging 
over  us  for  months,  until  the  trial  comes  on ;  and  then 
we  shall  have  to  go  through  it  all  again.  Still,  you 
know,  Susan,  you  won't  be  called  as  a  witness.     You'^ve 


GO  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

nothing  to  cry  about.  Now,  do  leave  off,  my  dear 
girl.  Let's  put  it  out  of  our  minds  now,  and  think  no 
more  about  it  till  we're  obliged  to.  JMy  dear  child, 
what  is  the  n^atter?  " 

For  Susan's  sobs  had  increased  in  volume,  and  now 
showed  some  signs  of  becoming  hysterical.  Mrs. 
Clinton  essayed  to  soothe  her  in  her  calm  sensible  way, 
and  Humphrey  said  kindly,  "  All  right,  Susan,  we're 
not  going  to  talk  about  it  any  more.  We're  both  sorry 
we  made  the  mistake  we  did,  and  you  are  not  so  much 
to  blame  for  it  as  I  am." 

But  perhaps  it  was  Joan,  who  was  not  greatly 
moved  by  a  woman's  tears,  who  brought  Susan's  to 
an  end  by  remarking,  "  We  are  getting  near  Lera- 
borough.     I  think  this  train  stops  there." 

When  Susan  had  dried  her  eyes,  and  was  able  to 
speak  with  no  more  than  an  occasional  hiccough,  she 
said,  "  I  am  sorry  for  Mrs.  Amberley.  I  don't  know 
her  very  well,  and  I  don't  like  her,  but  it's  a  horrible 
position  to  be  put  in." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  need  waste  much  sympathy 
on  /?-^r,"  said  the  Squire.  "  If  that's  all  you  are  crying 
about  you  might  have  saved  your  tears,  my  dear.  She 
won't  get  more  than  she  deserves." 

"  It  isn't  what  I  was  crying  about,"  said  Susan. 
"  You  spoke  as  if  all  of  us  who  were  at  Brummels  were 
just  the  same  as  she  is." 

The  Squire  did  privately  think  that  most  of  them, 
except  Humphrey  and  Susan  themselves,  and  Lord  Sed- 
bergh,  and  of  course  Joan,  would  have  been  capable  of 


Joan  Gives  Her  Evidence  61 

acting  in  the  same  way  as  Mrs.  Amberley,  if  necessity 
and  opportunity  had  prompted  them,  but  he  said,  "  Oh 
no,  Susan.  I  didn't  mean  to  go  nearly  so  far  as  that. 
Still,  there's  a  proverb  about  evil  communications,  you 
know,  and  I  do  hope  you  will  take  a  lesson  from  this 
nasty  business  and  steer  clear  of  the  sort  of  people  who 
go  in  for  that  kind  of  thing." 

He  spoke  as  if  the  people  received  into  fashionable 
society  who  "  went  in  "  for  stealing  pearl  necklaces 
were  easily  distinguishable  from  the  rest.  This  was 
probably  not  precisely  what  he  meant,  and  as  Susan 
plucked  up  a  smile  and  said,  "  Well,  you've  said  some 
very  unkind  things  to  me,  but  I'm  going  to  be  a  good 
girl  now,  and  I  hope  you  won't  say  any  more,"  he 
allowed  the  subject  to  drop  altogether,  and  the  rest 
of  the  journey  passed  in  peace. 


CHAPTER   V 

A   QUIET   TALK 

Frank  and  Nancy  were  on  the  platform  at  Kencote. 
The  Squire,  longing  for  his  home  whenever  he  was  away 
from  it,  like  any  schoolboy  detached  from  the  dear 
familiar,  was  pleased  to  see  their  smiling  faces.  They 
were  agreeably  surprised  by  the  warmth  of  his  greet- 
ing, having  expected  him  to  reach  home  in  even  a  worse 
state  of  mind  than  that  in  which  he  had  left  it,  and 
not  having  realised  that  a  dreaded  ordeal  has  lost  most 
of  its  sting  when  it  has  been  gone  through,  even  if  its 
terrors  have  been  worse  than  fancy  had  painted  them. 

"  Well,  young  people,"  was  his  hearty  greeting,  "  I 
hope  you  haven't  been  up  to  any  pranks  while  we've  been 
away." 

Not  a  word  about  the  police  court  proceedings  ;  no 
black  looks !  They  responded  suitably  to  his  geniality, 
and  passed  on  to  greet  the  other  members  of  the  family, 
looking  on  to  the  time  when  one  of  them  could  be 
detached  to  tell  the  story  of  what  had  happened. 

There  was  no  stint  of  carriages  in  the  Squire's 
stables,  nor  of  horses  to  draw  or  men  to  drive  them. 
He  himself  invariably  drove  his  phaeton  from  the 
station,  enjoying,  whatever  the  weather,  the  sense  of 
being  in  the  open  air,  doing  one  of  the  things  that  was 
a  part  of  his  natural  life,  after  being  cooped  up  for  a 

62 


A  Quiet  Talk  63 

couple  of  hours  in  a  train.     On  this  occasion  there  was 
also  an  open  carriage,  and  the  station  omnibus  for  the 
servants   and  the   luggage.     This   involved   six   horses, 
and  five  men,  in  the  sober  Clinton  livery  of  black  cloth 
with  dark  green   facings,  and   a  general  turn  out  in 
the  way  of  fine  upstanding  satin-coated  horseflesh,  gloss 
of   silver-plated  harness,   mirror-like  carriage   varnish, 
and  spick  and  span  retainerhood  that  would  not  have 
disgraced  royalty  itself.     It  was   indeed  with  a  sense 
almost  akin  to  that  of  royalty  that  the  Squire  took  the 
salutes  of  his  servants,  and  threw  his  eye  over  such  of 
his  vehicular  possessions  as  met  it.     He  was  undisputed 
lord  of  this  little  corner  of  the  world,  and  it  was  good 
to  find  himself  back  in  his  kingdom,  after  having  been 
an    undistinguished    unit    amongst    London's    millions, 
and  especially  to  breathe  its  serene  air  after  having  had 
his   nostrils  filled  with   the   sordid   atmosphere   of  the 
police  court.     He  took  the  reins  of  his  pair  of  greys 
from  his  head  coachman  with  a  deep  sense  of  satisfac- 
tion, and  swung  himself  actively  up  on  to  his  seat,  but 
not  before  he  had  settled  exactly  who  was  to  ride  in 
which  carriage. 

Mrs.  Clinton  always  sat  by  the  side  of  her  husband, 
and  did  so  now.  But  all  the  rest  had  wished  to  walk. 
The  landau,  however,  was  there,  and  could  not  be  sent 
back  empty.  At  least,  the  Squire  asked  what  was  the 
good  of  having  it  sent  down  if  nobody  used  it.  So 
Humphrey  and  Susan  sacrificed  their  desire  for  exer- 
cise to  his  sense  of  fitness,  and  Joan,  Nancy,  and  Frank 
set  out  to  walk  the  short  mile  that  lay  between  the 


64  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

station  and  the  house,  well  pleased  to  find  themselves 
alone  together. 

The  Squire  had  completely  recovered  his  equanimity 
for  the  time  being,  and  his  satisfaction  at  finding  him- 
self at  home  again  translated  itself  into  an  impulse  of 
good  will  towards  his  wife,  sitting  by  his  side. 

With  her  soft  white  hair  and  comely  face,  Mrs. 
Clinton  looked  a  fitting  helpmate  for  a  country  gentle- 
man getting  on  in  years,  but  still  full  of  manly  vigour. 
There  was  rather  a  splendid  air  about  the  Squire,  with 
his  massive  frame  and  his  look  of  health  and  vigour,  as 
he  sat  up  driving  his  handsome  horses ;  and  his  wife  did 
not  share  it.  He  had  married  her  for  love  when  he 
had  been  a  young  man  who  might  be  called  splendid 
without  any  qualification  whatever,  the  owner  of  a  fine 
estate  at  the  pitch  of  its  fruitfulness,  and  an  admitted 
match  for  all  but  the  very  highest.  He  had  chosen 
her,  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  officer  who  lived  in  a 
small  way  on  the  outskirts  of  the  neighbouring  town, 
and  had  been  considered  by  many  to  have  made  a  mis- 
alliance. But  he  had  never  thought  so  himself.  He 
had  made  of  her  a  slave  to  his  own  preferences,  kept  her 
shut  up  from  the  time  of  her  marriage,  away  from  the 
pursuits  and  the  friendships  for  which  her  understand- 
ing fitted  her,  and  unconsciously  belittled  that  under- 
standing by  demanding  that  in  all  things  she  should 
bring  her  intelligence  down  on  a  level  with  his.  But 
he  had  trusted  her  more  than  he  knew,  and  on  the  rare 
occasions  on  which  she  had  quietly  asserted  herself  to 
influence  him  he  had  followed  her,  and,  without  acknowl- 


A  Quiet  Talk  65 

edging  or  even  feeling  himself  to  have  been  in  the 
wrong,  had  afterwards  been  glad  of  it.  By  giving  way 
to  him  on  an  infinity  of  small  matters,  but  not  so  small 
to  her  as  to  have  avoided  a  sacrifice  of  many  strong 
inclinations,  she  had  kept  her  power  to  guide  him  in 
greater  matters.  Whatever  it  may  have  been  to  her, 
his  marriage  had  brought  him  all  that  he  could  ever 
have  desired.  She  had  brought  him,  perhaps,  more 
submission  than  had  been  good  for  him.  His  native 
capacity  for  domineering  had  thriven  on  it;  because  he 
had  never  had  to  meet  any  big  troubles  in  his  married 
life,  he  had  always  made  much  of  little  ones ;  because  she 
had  so  seldom  opposed  him,  he  took  opposition  from  any 
quarter  like  a  thwarted  child.  But  she  had  made  him 
always  beneath  the  surface  contented  with  her;  never 
once  in  the  forty  years  of  their  marriage,  when  he  had 
gone  about  angrily  chewing  a  grievance,  had  she  been 
the  cause  of  it.  Nothing  that  she  might  have  struggled 
for  and  won  in  her  own  life  would  have  outweighed 
that. 

Now,  with  her  own  thoughts  about  what  had  hap- 
pened strong  in  her,  she  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  his 
views,  which  were  fortunately  more  cheerfully  coloured 
than  they  had  been  for  some  days  past. 

"Well,  that's  over  for  the  present,"  was  the  burden 
of  his  speech,  but  when  he  had  so  expressed  himself  with 
sundry  variations,  he  found  something  else  to  comment 
upon. 

Susan's  tears !  They  had  moved  him.  "  I  think 
she's  all  right  at  heart,"  he  said.     "  She's  had  a  shock." 


66  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton.  "  I  am  glad  that  she  is 
to  be  with  us  for  a  day  or  two." 

The  Squire  considered  this.  Without  any  remarkable 
powers  of  discernment,  he  was  yet  not  entirely  incapable 
of  interpreting  his  wife's  sober  judgments. 

"  It  will  be  a  rest  for  her,"  he  said.  "  She  will  want 
to  forget  it.  Yes.  That's  all  very  well — if  she's  learnt 
her  lesson." 

Mrs.  Clinton  left  him  to  make  his  own  decision.  "  I 
shall  certainly  have  a  talk  with  Humphrey,"  he  said, 
rather  grudgingly. 

"Yes,  Edward.  If  you  have  a  quiet  talk  with  him, 
I  feel  sure  that  he  will  respond.  He  is  in  the  mood 
for  it." 

A  quiet  talk  was  not  exactly  what  the  Squire  had 
promised  himself  when  he  had  summoned  Humphrey  and 
Susan  to  Kencote.  But  perhaps  his  wife  was  right. 
She  often  was  in  these  matters.  And  he  had  worked  oiF 
a  good  deal  of  his  irritation  already  in  the  train.  Yes, 
a  quiet  talk  would  be  the  thing;  and  Susan  should  be 
left  out  of  it.  She  had  been  reduced  to  tears  once, 
and  it  would  be  disturbing  if  that  should  happen  again. 
She  might  be  considered  to  have  learnt  her  lesson,  as 
far  as  a  woman  could  learn  any  lesson.  The  wholesome 
influence  of  Kencote  might  be  left  to  work  in  her 
repentant  soul.  He  would  deny  himself  the  satisfac- 
tion of  rubbing  it  in. 

The  quiet  talk  took  place  as  father  and  son  walked 
out  together  after  tea  to  see  the  young  birds.  Frank 
had  to  be  prevented  from  making  a  tliird  in  the  expedi- 


A  Quiet  Talk  G7 

tion,  and  there  was  interruption  from  keepers,  from 
dogs,  and  from  the  young  birds  themselves,  whose  place 
in  the  scheme  of  things  it  was  to  be  discussed,  in  the 
month  of  June.  But  it  was  a  satisfactor}'  talk  all  the 
same,  and  the  Squire  was  pleased,  and  a  little  surprised, 
at  his  own  kindly  reasonableness. 

"  I  was  sorry  to  make  Susan  cry  in  the  train.  At 
least  I  wasn't  altogether  sorry — it  showed  she  took  to 
heart  what  I  had  said  to  her." 

"  Oh  yes.  She  took  it  to  heart  all  right.  The  whole 
business  has  given  her  a  bit  of  a  shock." 

"  Exactly  what  I  said  to  your  mother.  She's  had  a 
shock.  Well,  it  isn't  a  bad  thing  to  have  a  shock  some- 
times. It  brings  you  to  your  senses  if  you've  been 
going  wrong.  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  my 
boy ;  but  I  shan't  regret  all  the  worrj^  and  unpleasant- 
ness I've  been  put  to  if  it  has  the  effect  of  making  you 
think  a  bit  about  the  way  you  have  been  going  on,  and 
changing  your  way  of  life — you  and  Susan  both." 

"  Yes."  Humphrey  had  not  yet  realised  that  the 
talk  was  to  be  a  quiet  one.  It  was  not  unusual  for 
openings  of  this  sort  to  develop  into  something  that, 
however  it  might  be  viewed,  could  not  be  described  as 
quiet.  He  was  ready  to  be  quiet  himself;  but  he  would 
give  no  handles  if  he  could  help  it. 

The  Squire,  however,  could  not  altogether  dispense 
with  some  sort  of  a  handle,  although  he  was  prepared 
to  grasp  it  softly. 

"You  feel  that  yourself,  eh.?"  he  said.  "You  do 
recognise  that  you've  been  going  wrong,  what.'^  " 


68  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Humphrey  readily.  "We've  been 
spending  too  much  money,  and  I'm  sick  of  it.  It  isn't 
good  enough." 

This  was  not  quite  what  the  Squire  wanted.  If 
Humphrey  had  been  spending  too  much  money,  he  must 
be  in  debt ;  and  if  he  was  sick  of  it,  he  would  obviously 
want  to  get  out  of  debt.  He  did  not  want  the  quiet 
talk  to  follow  the  path  of  suggestions  as  to  how  that 
might  be  done. 

"  Well,  if  you've  been  spending  too  much  money,"  he 
said,  not  without  adroitness,  "  you  can  easily  spend  less. 
You  have  a  very  handsome  income  between  you,  and 
could  have  anything  anybody  could  reasonably  want 
if  you  only  spent  half  of  it.  The  fact  is,  you  know, 
my  boy,  that  you  can't  live  the  life  you  and  Susan  have 
been  living  with  any  lasting  satisfaction.  Your  Uncle 
Tom  preached  a  capital  sermon  about  that  last  Sun- 
day. It  was  something  to  the  effect  of  doing  your 
duty  in  the  world  instead  of  looking  out  for  pleasure, 
and  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  you,  both  here  and 
hereafter.  I  don't  pose  as  a  saint — never  have — but, 
after  all,  your  religion's  a  real  thing,  or  it  isn't.  I 
can  only  say  that  mine  has  been  a  comfort  to  me,  many's 
the  time.  I  have  had  my  fair  share  of  annoyances,  and 
it  has  enabled  me  to  get  through  them,  hoping  for  a 
better  time  to  come.  And  it  has  done  more  than 
that;  it's  made  me  see  that  a  life  of  pleasure  is  a 
dangerous  thing,  by  Jove,  and  the  man's  a  fool  who 
goes  in  for  it." 

"  Well,  it  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  pleasure." 


A  Quiet  Talk  69 

"That's  not  very  difficult  to  see,  is  it?  Dancing 
about  after  amusement  all  day  and  half  the  night ; 
rushing  here,  rushing  there ;  never  doing  anything  for 
the  good  of  your  fellow-creatures ;  getting  more 
and  more  bored  with  yourself  and  everybody  else ; 
..lever " 

"  Is  that  what  you  would  call  pleasure?  " 

"What  /  should  call  pleasure?  No,  thank  God,  it 
isn't.  I'd  sooner  break  stones  on  the  road  than  live  a 
life  like  that." 

"  Well,  there  you  are,  you  see.  What  you  would 
really  call  pleasure  is  something  quite  different.  I  sup- 
pose it  would  be  to  live  quietly  at  home  in  the  country, 
just  as  you  are  doing.  There's  nothing  dangerous  in 
that." 

"Of  course  there  isn't.  It's  the  best  life  for  any 
man,  if  the  Almighty  has  put  him  into  the  position  of 
enjoying  it.  It's  a  life  of  pleasure  in  a  way — yes, 
that's  perfectly  true;  but  it's  a  life  of  duty  too,  and 
stern  duty,  by  Jove,  very  often.  You  can't  be  always 
thinking  about  yourself.  You've  got  responsibilities, 
in  a  position  like  mine,  and  you've  got  to  remember 
that  some  day  you'll  have  to  give  an  account  of  them. 
We'll  just  go  in  here  and  see  Gotch;  I  want  a  word 
with  him  about  his  bill  for  meal." 

Gotch's  bill  for  meal,  and  the  welfare  of  the  young 
birds  under  his  charge  having  been  duly  discussed,  the 
walk  and  the  quiiet  talk  were  resumed. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying — what  was  it  I  was  saying?  " 

"  You  were  pointing  out  that  a  big  landowner  had 


70  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

a  jolly  good  time,  but  that  he  would  have  to  give  an 
ciccount  of  all  the  fun  he'd  had  by  and  by." 

"Eh?  Well,  that  wasn't  quite  how  I  meant  to  put 
it.  But  you  say  yourself  you  are  sick  of  the  life  you've 
been  leading — and  I  don't  wonder  at  it — and  I  wanted 
to  show  you  that  you  can  gain  much  more  satisfaction 
by  living  quietly  in  the  country,  and  amusing  yourself 
in  a  healthy  way,  and  doing  your  duty  towards  those 
dependent  on  you,  than  by  living  that  unhealthy 
rackety  London  hfe.  Look  at  Dick.  There's  no 
fellow  who  lived  more  in  the  thick  of  things  than  he 
did;  but  he  kept  his  head  through  it  all,  and  now  the 
time  has  come  for  him  to  settle  down  here  he's  ready  to 
do  it,  and  I  should  think  enjoys  his  life  as  much  as  any 
man  could.  It  was  just  the  same  with  me,  only  I  gave 
it  up  sooner  than  he  did.  I  had  my  two  years  in  the 
Blues,  and  then  I  married  and  settled  down  here;  and 
I've  never  regretted  it." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  you  have.  The  life  suits  you 
down  to  the  ground,  and  Dick  too.  It  would  suit  me  if 
I  were  in  your  place,  or  Dick's." 

"Well,  you  could  easily  live  the  life  that  Dick  lives, 
and  you  would  find  your  money  went  a  good  deal 
further,  if  you  made  up  your  mind  to  do  it.  I  wish 
you  would.  You  would  be  a  happier  man  in  every 
way,  and  Susan  would  be  a  happier  woman." 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  We  might  for  a  time,  but 
we  should  miss  a  lot  of  things.  You  can  amuse  your- 
self in  the  country  well  enough  half  the  year,  but 
not  all  the  year  round ;  and  we  couldn't  afford  both." 


A  Quiet  Talk  71 

"  My  dear  boy,  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you.  You 
are  going  on  the  wrong  tack  altogether  if  you  are 
always  thinking  about  amusing  yourself.  It  isn't  the 
way  to  look  at  life.     Every  man  has  duties  to  perform." 

"What  duties  should  I  have  to  perform?  I'm  not 
a  landowner,  and  never  likely  to  be  one.  If  I  lived 
in  the  country  I  should  hunt  a  bit  and  shoot  a  bit ; 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  time  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do." 

"  Well,  if  you  lived  near  here,  you  could  be  put  on 
the  bench.  There's  a  lot  of  useful  work  that  a  man 
living  on  the  income  you  have  can  do  in  keeping  things 
going.  In  these  times  the  more  gentry  there  are  living 
in  a  place,  the  better  it  is  for  the  country  all  round. 
What  do  you  do  as  it  is?  It  can't  be  satisfactory  to 
anybody  to  live  year  after  year  in  a  whirl.  There's 
not  a  single  thing  you  do  in  London  that's  good  for 
you  that  you  couldn't  do  better  in  the  country." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  There's  music  for  one 
thing,  and  pictures  and  plays.  I'm  not  altogether  the 
brainless  voluptuary,  you  know.  There's  a  lot  goes  on 
in  London  that  keeps  your  mind  alive,  and  you  drop 
that  if  you  bury  yourself  in  the  country." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  but 
with  persistent  good  humour.  "  Don't  I  keep  my  mind 
alive?  You'd  have  the  '  Times'  and  the  '  Spectator'; 
and  there  are  lots  of  clever  people  in  the  country. 
Look  at  Tom!  He  hardly  ever  goes  near  London. 
Hates  the  place.  But  I'll  guarantee  that  he  reads  as 
much  as  any  Bishop,  and  knows  what's  going  on  in  the 


72  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

world  as  well  as  anybody.  No,  my  dear  boy,  it  won't 
do.  I  don't  say  there  aren't  people  it  suits  to  be  in 
London.  Herbert  Birkett,  for  instance!"  (This  was 
Mrs.  Clinton's  brother,  the  Judge.)  "But  he's  been 
brought  up  to  it.  He  hasn't  got  the  tastes  of  a 
country  gentleman,  wouldn't  be  happy  away  from  the 
Athenaeum  Club,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And 
George  Senhouse,  with  his  Parliament  and  his  com- 
mittees and  so  on.  That's  a  different  thing.  They've 
got  their  work  to  do.  But  don't  tell  me  jon  are  like 
that.  Yours  is  a  different  life  altogether.  They  spend 
theirs  amongst  sober,  God-fearing  people — at  least 
George  Senhouse  does.  Of  course,  Herbert  Birkett 
was  a  Radical,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  answer  for  the 
morals  of  all  Ms  friends,  even  now.  But,  anyhow, 
they're  not  the  sort  that  would  make  a  bosom  friend 
of  a  woman  like  that  Mrs.  Amberley." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  make  a  bosom 
friend  of  her  myself.  But  she's  no  worse  than  a  lot 
of  others.  She's  been  found  out — that's  all — and,  of 
course,  the  whole  pack  are  in  full  cry  after  her  now." 

" "  My  dear  boy,  you  are  surely  not  going  to  stand 
up  for  a  woman  convicted  of  a  vulgar  theft !  " 

"  She  hasn't  been  convicted  yet.  But  even  if  she 
is  guilty,  as  I  suppose  she  is,  one  can't  help  feeling 
a  bit  sorry  for  her.  You  don't  know  what  may  have 
driven  her  to  it.  Amberley  left  her  badly  off,  and  it's 
a  desperate  thing  for  a  woman  to  be  worried  night  and 
day  by  debt.  That's  what  Susan  feels.  She's  known 
it  in  a  sort  of  way  herself.     You  know  the  dust-up  we 


A  Quiet  Talk  73 

had  a  couple  of  years  ago,  when  you  kindly  came  to 
the  rescue.  Well,  I  suppose  that  brings  it  home  to 
her.  She  doesn't  care  for  Rachel  Amberley  any  more 
than  I  do,  but  she  can't  take  the  line  about  this  business 
that  most  people  take;  and  I'm  inclined  to  think  she's 
right.  After  all — you  were  talking  about  religion  just 
now — it  seems  to  me  that  religion  ought  to  prevent 
you  judging  harshly  of  people  who  have  got  into 
trouble." 

The  Squire's  upper  lip  went  down.  "Flagrant  dis- 
honesty is  not  a  thing  that  you  can  judge  leniently, 
and  no  religion  in  the  world  would  tell  you  to  do  so," 
he  said.  "  You've  got  to  keep  to  certain  lines,  or 
everything  goes  by  the  board.  I  don't  like  to  hear 
you  upholding  such  views." 

"  It  is  all  a  question  of  how  you  are  situated.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  think  of  you,  for  instance,  steal- 
ing anything.  You  wouldn't  have  the  smallest  tempta- 
tion to.  But  you  might  do  something  else  that  would 
be  just  as  bad." 

"  /  might  do  something  just  as  bad — something  dis- 
honourable !  " 

"  You  never  know.  You  might  have  a  sudden  tempta- 
tion. Of  course,  it  wouldn't  come  in  any  way  you 
expected !     You  might  act  on  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

The  Squire  stopped  and  faced  his  son.  "  That's  a 
very  foolish  thing  to  say,"  he  said  with  a  frown.  "  A 
man  of  principle  doesn't  act  dishonourably  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  Doesn't  honour  count  for  anything 
with  you.^  " 


74  TJie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Humphrey  walked  on,  and  the  Squire  walked  with 
him. 

"  I  say  you  don't  know  what  you'd  do  if  an  unex- 
pected temptation  came.  You  don't  know  how  strong 
your  principles  are  till  they  are  tried." 

"They  are  tried.  They  are  always  being  tried,  in 
little  ways.  A  man  leads  an  upright  life,  as  far  as  in 
him  lies,  and  if  a  big  question  comes  up,  he's  ready 
for  it." 

"  It  depends  on  how  much  he  is  tried,"  said 
Humphrey.     "  I  say  you  never  know." 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE    YOUNG    BIRDS 


"  It's  a  horrid  thing  for  a  young  girl  to  have  to  go 
through." 

John  Spence  fitted  two  wahiuts  together  in  the  palms 
of  his  big  hands  and  cracked  them  with  a  sudden 
tightening  of  the  muscles.  His  good-humoured  ruddy 
face  was  solicitous.  "  I  think  they  ought  to  have  kept 
her  out  of  it,"  he  said. 

The  dark-panelled  dining-room  of  the  Dower  House 
framed  a  warm  picture  of  two  men  and  two  women  sit- 
ting at  the  round  table,  bright  with  lights  and  flowers, 
old  silver  and  sparkling  glass.  A  fire  of  applewood 
twinkled  on  the  hearth ;  for  September  had  come  round, 
and  one  section  at  least  of  the  young  birds,  now 
adolescent,  were  about  to  discover  for  themselves  what 
their  elders  had  possibly  warned  them  of:  that  those 
great  brown  creatures,  whom  they  had  hitherto  known 
only  as  protective  census-takers,  became  as  dangerous 
as  stoats  and  weasels  when  the  dew  began  to  lie  thick 
on  the  grass.. 

Jphn  Spence  had  come  down  for  the  first  day  among 

the  Kencote  partridges,  leaving  his  own  stubbles,  which 

were    more    copiously    populated,    until    later.     Dick 

Clinton    had    generally    started    the    season    with    him. 

The  Kencote  partridges  ranked  second  to  the  Kencote 

75 


76  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

pheasants,  and  could  very  well  bide  the  convenience  of 
those  who  were  to  kill  them.  But  they  had  done  very 
well  this  year,  and  it  was  becoming  less  easy  to  draw 
Dick  away  from  his  home. 

"  It's  good  of  old  John  to  put  off  his  own  shoot  and 
come  down  here,"  he  had  said  to  his  wife,  when  he  had 
received  the  somewhat  unexpected  acceptance  of  his 
invitation. 

Virginia  had  looked  at  him  out  of  her  great  dark 
eyes,  and  there  had  been  amusement  in  them,  as 
well  as  the  half-protective  affection  which  they  always 
showed  towards  her  handsome  husband;  but  she  had 
said  nothing  to  explain  the  amusement,  and  he  had 
not  noticed  it. 

The  party  at  the  dinner-table  was  discussing  Mrs. 
Amberley's  trial,  which  was  to  come  on  in  the  follow- 
ing month. 

"Joan  has  got  her  wits  about  her,"  said  Dick. 
"  She  answered  up  very  well  in  the  police  court,  and  I 
don't  suppose  it  will  be  any  more  terrible  next  month." 

"  Still,  I  think  it's  beastly  for  her,"  persisted  his 
friend.  "  That  woman — putting  it  to  her  publicly  about 
Trench  !     I  read  it  in  the  evidence." 

"  It  was  a  piece  of  bluff,"  said  Dick.  "  Still,  she 
ought  to  have  her  neck  wrung  for  it." 

"  A  cat !  "  said  Miss  Dexter,  Virginia's  friend,  square- 
faced  and  square-figured.  "A  spiteful,  pilfering 
cat !  " 

"  Poor  darling  little  Joan !  "  said  Virginia.  "  She 
hates  the  very  name  of  Bobby  Trench  now,  and  she 


The  Young  Birds  77 

used  to  make  all  sorts  of  fun  of  liim  and  his  love- 
making  before." 

"  Oh,  he  made  love  to  her,  did  he?  "  asked  Spence. 

"  Don't  talk  such  nonsense,  Virginia,"  said  Dick 
maritally.  "  He  knew  the  twins  when  they  were  chil- 
dren ;  looks  on  them  as  children  now.  So  they  are. 
He's  years  older  than  Joan." 

"  Still,  she's  a  very  pretty  girl,"  said  John  Spence. 
"  And  so  is  Nancy." 

Virginia  laughed.     "  It's  the  same  thing,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  John  Spence  judicially. 
"  In  appearance,  yes — perhaps  so.  But  there  is  a 
difference.  You  see  it  more  now  they  are  grown  up. 
I  think  Nancy  is  cleverer.  Of  course,  they're  both 
clever,  but  I  should  say  Nancy  read  more  books  and 
things.  And  what  I  like  about  Nancy  is  that  with 
all  her  brains  she's  a  real  good  country  girl.  I  must 
say  I  don't  care  about  these  knowing  young  women 
you  meet  about  London,  and  in  other  people's  houses." 

Virginia  laughed  again.  "  Tell  Mr.  Clinton  that," 
she  said.  "  He  will  think  you  one  of  the  most  sensible 
of  men." 

"  Well,  I  don't  profess  to  be  a  clever  fellow  myself," 
said  John  Spence  modestly ;  "  but  I  like  a  girl  to  have 
brains  and  know  how  to  use  'em,  and  I  like  her  to  like 
the  country.  It's  what  I  like  myself;  and  if  Mr. 
Clinton  thinks  the  same  I'm  with  him  all  the 
time." 

"  Mr.  Clinton  might  not  insist  upon  the  brains," 
said  Miss  Dexter, 


78  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Virginia  held  up  her  finger.  "  Toby ! "  she  said 
warningly,  "  we  don't  criticise  our  relations-in- 
law." 

Dick  grinned  indulgently  at  his  neighbour.  "  How 
you'll  let  us  have  it  when  you  go  away  from  here ! " 
he  said. 

"  I  always  do  let  you  have  it,"  she  replied  uncom- 
promisingly. "  You  think  such  a  deal  of  yourselves 
that  it  does  you  all  the  good  in  the  world.  But  I  don't 
wait  till  I  go  away." 

"  I  was  rather  sorry  that  Joan  got  let  into  that 
gang  of  people  at  all,"  said  John  Spence.  "  They're 
no  good  to  anybody.  It  hasn't  altered  her  at  all,  has 
it?  She  and  Nancy  were  the  j oiliest  pair.  Lord,  how 
they  made  me  laugh  when  they  were  kids,  and  I  first 
came  down  here  !  " 

He  laughed  now  at  the  remembrance,  a  jolly,  robust 
laugh  which  wrinkled  his  firm,  weathered  skin,  and 
showed  his  white  teeth.  "  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  either 
of  them  spoiled  by  going  about  to  houses  like  Brum- 
mels,"  he  said,  with  a  return  to  seriousness.  "  I  don't 
believe  Nancy  would  have  cared  about  it." 

"She  would  have  gone  just  the  same  as  Joan,"  said 
Miss  Dexter,  "  if  she  had  happened  to  be  in  the  way 
of  it,  and  she  would  have  behaved  just  the  same;  that 
is,  just  as  she  ought  to  have  behaved.  You  seem  to 
think  that  Joan  is  smirched  because  she  has  been  let 
in,  through  no  fault  of  hers,  for  this  horrid  thing. 
You're  as  bad  as  Mrs.  Amberley." 

John  Spence  received  this   charge  with  an   "Oh,  I 


The  Young  Birds  79 

say !  "  But  he  added,  "  All  the  same,  I  wish  It  hadn't 
happened." 

The  guns  met  the  next  morning  at  the  corner  by 
the  Dower  House.  The  Squire  brought  with  him  Sir 
Herbert  Birkett,  the  judge,  and  Sir  George  Senhouse, 
who  had  married  the  judge's  daughter.  Neither  of 
them  would  be  expected  to  do  much  execution  amongst 
the  young  birds,  but  the  Squire  was  strong  on  family 
ties,  and  liked  to  have  his  relatives  to  shoot  with  him, 
more  especially  when  he  was  going  to  shoot  par- 
tridges. 

The  twins  and  Lady  Senhouse  were  of  the  party, 
and  Virginia  and  Miss  Dexter.  It  was  a  family  occa- 
sion, and  John  Spence,  knowing  that  it  was  to  be  so, 
had  felt  glad,  when  he  had  looked  out  of  his  window 
in  the  morning,  that  he  had  put  off  the  inauguration 
of  his  campaign  amongst  his  own  young  birds  in  order 
to  take  part  in  it. 

Joan  and  Nancy,  in  workmanlike  tweeds,  gave  him 
smiling  welcome.  Previously,  when  he  had  shot  at  Ken- 
cote,  and  they  had  gone  out  with  the  guns,  they  had 
disputed  amicably  as  to  which  of  them  should  walk 
and  stand  with  him,  and  the  one  who  had  won  the 
dispute  had  taken  bold  possession  of  him.  Neither  did 
so  this  morning,  and  it  was  left  to  him  to  give  an 
invitation. 

"  Well,  Joan,"  he  said,  when  they  were  ready  to 
move  off,  "  are  you  going  to  keep  me  company?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nancy  instantly.  "  I  am  going  with 
Uncle  Herbert." 


80  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  But  you  will  come  with  me  after  lunck,"  said  John 
Spence,  with  a  trifle  of  anxiety. 

"  All  right,"  she  threw  over  her  shoulder. 

They  walked  over  a  field  of  roots,  A  single  bird  got 
up  some  little  distance  away  and  flew  parallel  to  the 
line.  Spence  snapped  it  off  neatly.  "  I'm  going  to 
shoot  well  to-day,"  he  said  with  satisfaction.  "  I  like 
a  gallery,  you  know,  Joan.  I  say,  Nancy's  not  annoyed 
about  anything,  is  she  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.     Why.?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  she  seen^ed  as  if  she 
didn't  much  want  to  come  with  me." 

"  You  see  we're  grown  up  now,"  said  Joan.  "  We 
can't  seize  you  by  the  arm,  as  we  used  to  do,  and  see 
which  can  pull  hardest.  We  have  to  wait  till  you 
ask  us." 

They  had  come  to  a  high,  rather  blind  fence,  and  the 
line  had  spread  out,  and  was  waiting.  Joan  and  John 
Spence  were  practically  alone,  except  for  Spence's  wise 
and  calm  retriever. 

He  looked  down  at  her  wdth  the  kind  elder  brotherly 
smile  which,  with  his  frank  and  simple  appreciation 
of  their  humours,  had  so  endeared  him  to  the  twins. 
"  I  say,  that's  awful  rot,  you  know,"  he  said. 

Joan  was  conscious  of  pleasure  and  some  relief  as 
she  met  liis  eyes.  She  wanted  nothing  more  than  that 
things  should  be  between  the  three  of  them  as  they 
had  always  been.  She  had  come  to  think  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  Nancy  wanted  nothing  more,  either;  but 
she  did  not  know,  because  they  had  not  talked  about 


The  Young  Birds  81 

John  Spence  together  lately.  If  this  visit  should  show 
him  to  be  what  he  had  always  been,  they  would  talk 
about  him  together  again,  and  perhaps  that  was  what 
she  wanted  at  the  moment  more  than  anything;  for 
it  was  a  source  of  discomfort  to  her  that  there  was  a 
subject  taboo  between  Nancy  and  herself. 

"  It  may  be  sad,"  she  said.  "  But  it  isn't  rot.  We 
are  grown  up,  and  there  is  no  getting  over  it." 

A  shadow  came  over  his  face.  "  They've  been  teach- 
ing you  things,"  he  said.  "  When  I  came  down  here 
last,  and  you  were  away  in  London — and  at  Brum- 
mels — Nancy  was  just  the  same  as  she  had  always  been. 
I  don't  see  any  reason  why  you  should  alter." 

"  Dear  old  Jonathan !  We'll  never  alter — to  you," 
said  Joan  affectionately.  But  she  was  conscious  of  a 
little  pang. 

The  birds  began  to  come  over.  John  Spence  ac- 
counted for  his  due  share  of  them.  "  I  wish  I'd  got 
another  gun,"  he  said.  "  You've  done  well  with  them 
this  year." 

When  they  all  came  together  for  lunch,  Nancy  said 
to  Joan,  "  Uncle  Herbert  is  in  splendid  form — I  don't 
mean  over  shooting,  for  he  has  hardly  hit  anything. 
Has  Jonathan  been  amusing.''  " 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  said  Joan.  "  He  has  been  lectur- 
ing me.  He  is  getting  old;  he  is  just  like  father.  I 
will  gladly  change  with  you." 

Nancy  stared,  but  said  nothing.  She  and  Joan  were 
accustomed  to  criticise  everybody.  But  they  had  never 
yet  criticised  John  Spence. 


82  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Well,  mj  dear  Joan,"  said  the  Judge,  as  she  took 
her  place  bj  his  side  after  lunch,  "  I  heaped  disgrace 
upon  myself  this  morning,  and  I  very  much  doubt  if 
I  shall  wipe  any  of  it  off  this  afternoon.  The  Kencote 
partridges  are  too  many  for  me — too  many  and  too 
fast.  Why  do  I  still  pursue  them,  at  my  age  and 
with  my  reputation  .f*  Is  it  a  genuine  love  of  sport,  or 
mere  vanity?  " 

"  Vanity,  I  think,"  said  Joan.  "  You  don't  really 
care  about  it,  you  know.  You  are  not  like  Mr.  Spence, 
and  father,  and  the  boys,  who  think  about  nothing 
else." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  do  think  of  other  things  occa- 
sionally. But  where  does  the  vanity  come  in?  En- 
lighten me  for  my  good." 

"  Men  are  like  that.  Mr.  Spence  wouldn't  be  in  the 
least  ashamed  at  being  ignorant  of  all  the  things 
that  you  know  about,  but  you  would  be  quite  ashamed 
of  not  knowing  something  about  sport." 

"  A  searching  indictment,  my  dear  Joan.  It  comes 
home  to  me.  I  am  a  foolish  and  contemptible  old  man. 
And  yet  I  do  rather  like  it,  you  know.  The  colours 
of  the  trees  and  the  fields,  this  delicious  Autumn  air — 
the  expectation — ah !  " 

The  advance  guard  of  a  covey  had  whizzed  over 
his  head  unharmed ;  the  rest  came  on,  swerving  in  their 
rapid  flight  as  if  to  dodge  the  charges  from  his 
barrels,  which  all  except  one  of  them  succeeded  in 
doing. 

"  More   coming.     I   shall  be   ready   for   them   next 


Tlie  Young  Birds  83 

time,"  he  said,  hastily  ramming  cartridges  into  his 
breach. 

More  came — and  most  of  them  went.  He  had  been 
in  the  best  place,  and  had  only  killed  three  birds. 

"  I  must  be  content  with  that,"  he  said  with  a 
sigh.  "  It  is  not  bad  for  me.  Your  John  Spence 
would  have  shot  three  times  as  many,  but  he  would  not 
have  got  more  fun  out  of  it  than  I  have.  Joan,  it 
is  not  all  vanity." 

Joan  spent  a  pleasant  afternoon,  but  she  did  not  feel 
as  happy  over  it  as  she  would  have  done  a  year  ago. 
When  she  and  Nancy  summed  up  the  experiences  of 
the  day  she  said,  "  I  don't  mind  whether  Uncle  Her- 
bert can  shoot  or  not.  It  is  much  more  amusing  to 
be  with  him  than  with  any  of  the  others." 

"  Jonathan  said  you  weren't  half  as  keen  on  sport 
as  you  used  to  be,"  said  Nancy.  "He  thinks  you  are 
becoming  fashionable." 

"  Idiot !  "  said  Joan.  Then  she  suddenly  felt  as  if 
she  wanted  to  cry,  but  terror  at  the  idea  of  doing  any- 
thing so  unaccountable — before  Nancy — dried  up  the 
desire  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  felt.  "  I  am  afraid  I 
am  getting  too  old  for  Jonathan,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
beginning  to  bore  me." 


CHAPTER    VII 


THE    VERDICT 


The  Squire  rang  his  bell  violently,  with  a  loud  ex- 
clamation of  impatience.  It  was  a  handbell,  on  a  table 
by  the  side  of  his  easy  chair,  in  front  of  which 
was  a  baize-covered  rest,  with  his  foot,  voluminously 
swathed,  upon  it. 

A  servant  answered  the  bell  with  but  little  loss  of 
time.  "  Hasn't  the  groom  come  back  yet?  "  asked  the 
Squire,  in  a  tone  of  acute  annoyance.  "  I  told  him  to 
waste  no  time.     He  must  have  been  dawdling." 

"  He  was  just  a-coming  into  the  yard  when  your 
bell  rang,  sir,"  replied  the  man. 

"Well,  then,  why ?     Ah,  here  they  are  at  last. 

Give  them  to  me.  Porter." 

The  butler  had  come  in  with  a  big  roll  of  newspapers, 
which  the  Squire  seized  from  him  and  opened  hurriedly, 
choosing  the  most  voluminous  of  them,  and  throwing 
the  others  on  to  the  floor  by  his  side. 

THE  SOCIETY  TRIAL.     FULL  REPORT. 
VERDICT. 

It  filled  a  whole  page,  and  a  column  besides. 
The  Squire  read  steadily;  his  face,  set  to  a  frown- 
ing censure,  showed  gleams  of  surprise,  and  every  now 

84 


The  Verdict  85 

and  then  his  lips  forced  an  expression  of  disgust.  He 
was  not  a  rapid  reader,  and  it  was  half  an  hour  before 
he  put  down  tlie  paper,  and  after  looking  into  the 
fire  for  a  minute,  took  up  another  from  the  floor.  At 
that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a  large  elderly  man 
with  a  mild  and  pleasant  face  came  into  the  room.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  dark  pepper-and-salt  suit,  with  a  white 
tie,  and  shut  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Tom  ! "  said  the  Squire.  "  You  had 
Nina's  telegram,  I  suppose.  I  sent  it  down  to  you 
directly  it  came." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Rector.  "  I  was  surprised  that  it 
should  all  have  been  over  so  quickly.  How  is  your 
foot  this  morning,  Edward.^  " 

"  Oh,  all  right.  At  least,  it  isn't  all  right.  I  had 
a  horrible  night — never  slept  a  wink.  I've  got  the 
papers  here.  The  woman  ought  to  have  got  penal 
servitude.  Yes,  it  was  over  quickly.  It  was  all  as 
plain  as  possible,  and  I'm  glad  she  did  herself  no  good 
by  her  monstrous  lies.  The  gross  impudence  of  it ! 
Evidently  she'll  stick  at  nothing.  But  I  forgot.  You 
haven't  seen  the  evidence.  Here,  read  this !  Would 
it  be  believed  that  she  could  have  put  up  such  a  defence  .'^ 
That  bit  there !  " 

The  Rector  deliberately  fixed  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed 
glasses  on  to  his  nose,  and  took  the  paper,  looking  up 
occasionally  from  his  reading  as  his  brother  interjected 
remarks,  which  interrupted  but  did  not  seem  to  irri- 
tate him. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,  Edward,"  he  said,  when  he 


86  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

had  finished  the  passage  to  which  his  attention  had  been 
drawn.  "She  says  the  pearls  she  sold  were  given  to 
her  by  somebody,  but  the  name  is  not  mentioned. 
Apparently  there  was  a  wrangle  about  it." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Tom,"  said  the  Squire,  "  can't  you  see 
what  it  all  means?  It  is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your 
face.     A  wicked,  baseless  scandal." 

The  Rector  returned  to  the  newspaper,  but  his  air 
of  bewilderment  remained. 

"  Oh  well,"  said  the  Squire  with  an  impatient  glance 
at  him.  "  You  don't  live  in  the  world  where  these 
things  are  talked  about.  I  don't  either,  thank  God. 
But  one  hears  things.  This  infamous  woman  has  posed 
as  the — the  friend — the  mistress — yes,  actually  wanted 

it  to  be  thought  that  she  was  the  mistress,  of No, 

I'm  not  going  to  say  it ;  I  won't  sully  my  lips,  or  put 
ideas  into  your  head.  It's  untrue,  absolutely  untrue, 
and  people  in  that  position  are  defenceless.  She  ought 
not  to  bring  in  their  names  even  in  idle  talk.  I'm  very 
glad  indeed  that  there  was  a  strong  stand  made  in  the 
court." 

The  Rector  had  re-read  the  passage,  and  looked  up 
with  a  slight  flush  on  his  cheeks — almost  the  look  that 
an  innocent  girl  might  have  shown  if  some  shameful 

suggestion  had  come  home  to  her.     "  It  is  not "  he 

hazarded. 

"  Oh,  not  here,"  the  Squire  took  him  up.  "  Paris. 
But  it  is  all  the  more  abominable.  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it.  And  even  if  it  were  true — —  But  is  it 
a  likely  story?  " 


The  Verdict  87 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  Rector  gravely. 

"  Oh,  these  things  do  happen  ;  I  don't  deny  that.  One 
can't  judge  these  people  quite  the  same  as  ourselves. 
But  what  a  preposterous  idea !  Pearls  worth  thou- 
sands !  And  at  the  very  time  when  this  necklace  of 
Lady  Sedbergh's  was  missing,  and  she  was  practically 
seen  taking  it !  Joan  saw  her.  I'm  glad  they  didn't 
worry  Joan  too  much  over  her  evidence.  I'm  glad 
it's  over  for  the  child.  It's  annoyed  me  most  infernally 
to  be  tied  by  the  leg  here,  and  not  knowing  what  might 
be  going  on,  where  I  couldn't  direct  or  advise.  How- 
ever, she  did  very  well — gave  her  answers  simply  and 
stuck  to  them,  and  there  was  no  more  of  that  impudent 
suggestion  about  young  Trench,  I'm  glad  to  say,  ex- 
cept that  they  tried  to  make  out  he  had  put  it  all 
into  her  head.  He's  quite  a  decent  fellow,  that  woman's 
counsel.  Herbert  Birkett  knows  him.  It's  pretty  plain 
that  he  was  only  making  the  best  of  a  bad  job — 
couldn't  expect  to  get  the  woman  off,  especially  after 
she  had  put  herself  out  of  court  in  the  way  she  did." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  Rector,  who  had  been  reading 
steadily  while  this  speech  was  being  delivered,  "  that 
there  was  evidence  from  several  people  that  she  had 
worn  a  pearl  necklace,  before  the  time  Lady  Sedbergh's 
was  stolen." 

"Yes,  and  if  you'll  read  further,  you'll  see  that  her 
maid  declares  that  it  was  a  sham  one.  She  told  her 
so  herself.  They  tried  to  make  out  that  she  wanted 
to  put  her  off  the  scent.  But  that  won't  wash.  The 
maid  gave  her  evidence  very  well.     You'll  see  it  towards 


88  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

the  end.  It  is  what  clinched  it.  She  had  seen  the 
diamond  star  in  the  woman's  jewel-box.  Of  course  she 
has  made  away  with  it  somehow,  since;  but  the  maid 
described  it  exactly.  She  had  had  it  in  her  hands, 
and  there  was  an  unusual  sort  of  catch,  which  she 
couldn't  have  heard  about.  She  told  her  young  man, 
and  he  went  to  the  police.  Oh,  it's  proved.  It  isn't 
only  circumstantial  evidence,  it's  damning  proof.  And 
she's  got  far  less  than  her  deserts.  A  year's  imprison- 
ment !     She  ought  to  have  had  ten  years'  hard  labour." 

"  They  seem  to  have  convicted  her  on  the  theft  of 
the  diamond  star  alone." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  quite  understand  why,  except  that 
there  is  no  conceivable  doubt  as  to  that.  I  suppose 
her  impudent  lie  about  the  necklace  saved  her,  as  far 
as  that  goes.  It  led  them  to  drop  the  charge,  as 
they  had  got  her  on  the  other.     I  must  read  the  evidence 


affain." 


The  Rector  put  the  paper  aside,  and  took  off  his 
glasses.  "  Poor  woman !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  Her 
life  ruined!  But  it  is  well  for  her  that  she  has  been 
found  out.  Her  punishment  will  balance  the  account 
against  her ;  she  will  get  another  start." 

"  Not  in  this  country,"  said  the  Squire  vindictively. 
"  She  is  done  for.  Nobody  will  look  at  her  again.  I 
think  one  can  say  that  much,  at  any  rate.  Society  is 
disgracefully  loose  now-a-days ;  but  there  are  some 
things  it  canH  stomach.  I'm  glad  to  think  that  this 
woman  is  one  of  them.  We  shall  hear  no  more  of  Mrs. 
Amberley." 


The  Verdict  89 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  Rector,  after  a  pause.  "  The 
world  is  not  made  up  of  what  is  called  Society.  Thank 
God  there  are  men  and  women  who  will  not  turn  away 
from  a  repentant  sinner.  Who  knows  but  what  this 
poor  woman  may  win  her  soul  out  of  the  disgrace  that 
has  befallen  her.'^" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Tom !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  You  live 
in  the  clouds.     A  woman  like  that  hasn't  got  a  soul." 

Mrs.  Clinton  and  Joan,  with  Dick  and  Virginia, 
returned  to  Kencote  that  evening.  The  Squire  received 
his  wife  and  daughter  as  if  they  had  been  playing 
truant,  and  intimated  that  now  they  had  come  home 
they  had  better  put  everything  that  had  been  happening 
out  of  their  heads.  They  had  seen  for  themselves  what 
came  of  mixing  with  those  sort  of  people,  and  he 
hoped  that  the  lesson  had  not  been  wasted.  The  whole 
affair  had  given  him  an  infinity  of  worry,  and  had  no 
doubt  brought  on  the  attack  from  which  he  was  suffer- 
ing. It  was  all  over  now,  and  he  didn't  want  to  hear 
another  word  about  it.  In  fact,  it  was  not  to  be  men- 
tioned in  the  house.  Did  Joan  understand  that.?  He 
would  not  have  her  and  Nancy  talking  about  it.  They 
had  plenty  of  other  things  to  talk  about.  Did  she 
understand  that.'* 

Joan  said  that  she  quite  understood  it,  and  went  off 
to  give  Nancy  a  full  account  of  her  experiences. 

"  M}^  dear,  she  looked  awful,"  she  said.  "  She  was 
wonderfully  dressed,  and  had  got  herself  up  so  that 
only  a  woman  could  have  known  that  she  was  got  up 
at  all.     But  she  looked  as  old  as  the  hills.     Honestly, 


90  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I  felt  sorry  for  her,  although  I  hated  her  for  what 
she  said  to  me  before.  But  she  was  fighting  for  her 
life,  and  she  made  a  brave  show." 

"But  she  couldn't  say  anything,  could  she?  I 
thought  the  counsel  did  it  all." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  worst  of  it — for  her.  She  had 
to  stand  there  while  they  fought  over  her,  and  look  all 
the  time  as  if  she  didn't  care.  Awful !  Poor  thing, 
she's  in  prison  now,  and  I  should  think  she's  glad 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  know  in  the  least  what  happened,  except 
that  she  was  sent  to  prison  for  a  year.  Father  kept 
all  the  papers  in  his  room." 

"  I  don't  know  much  either.  Directly  I  had  given 
my  evidence  mother  took  me  away." 

"  We'll  get  hold  of  a  paper." 

"  No,  we  mustn't.     Mother  asked  me  not  to." 

"  What  a  bore !  What  was  it  like,  giving  your 
evidence  ?     Were  you  alarmed "?  " 

"  No,  not  much.  It  wasn't  worse  than  the  other 
place.  It  wasn't  so  bad.  Sir  Edward  Logan,  the  Sed- 
berghs'  counsel,  was  awfully  sweet.  He  made  me  say 
exactly  what  I  had  seen,  and  when  Sir  Herbert  Jessop — 
that  was  her  man — tried  to  worry  me  into  saying  that 
Bobby  Trench  had  put  it  all  into  my  head,  he  got  up 
and  objected." 

"  Did  he  try  to " 

"  No.  He  was  quite  nice  about  it,  really.  I  sup- 
pose h€  had  to  try  and  make  it  out  diflFerent,  somehow. 
He  left  off  directly  our  counsel  objected,  and  the  old 


TJie  Verdict  91 

Judge  said  I  had  given  my  evidence  very  well  and 
clearly.  I  don't  think  he  really  believed  that  I  was 
making  it  all  up." 

"  You  didn't  hear  what  anybody  else  said.''  " 

"  Not  a  word.  Except  when  I  was  in  the  witness- 
box  myself,  I  might  just  as  well  have  been  at  home." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  papers  said  about  you.  I  wish 
we  could  see  them." 

What  those  of  the  papers  had  said  which  gave  their 
readers  a  description  as  well  as  a  report  of  what  had 
occurred,  was  that  Miss  Joan  Clinton  had  appeared 
in  the  witness-box  in  a  simple  but  becoming  costume, 
which  some  of  them  described,  and  given  her  evi- 
dence clearly  and  modestly.  Some  of  them  said  that 
she  was  prett}^,  and  one,  with  a  special  appeal  to  the 
nonconformist  conscience,  said  that  it  was  a  pity  to 
see  a  young  lady  who  from  her  appearance  could  not 
long  since  have  left  the  schoolroom,  and  who  looked 
and  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  well  brought  up,  involved 
in  the  sordid  life  of  w^hat  was  known  as  the  higher 
circles,  brought  to  light  by  these  proceedings.  The 
Squire  had  read  this  comment  with  a  snort  of  indigna- 
tion. But  for  the  quarter  from  which  it  came  he  would 
have  recognised  it  as  coinciding  with  his  own  frequently 
expressed  opinion.  As  it  was,  he  considered  it  an  im- 
pertinent reflection  upon  himself  and  his  order. 

When  Dick  came  up  to  see  him  that  evening  he  did 
not  insist  that  the  subject  should  not  be  mentioned 
again.  He  asked  him  why  he  had  not  come  in  on  his 
way  from  the  station.     "  There  has  been  nobody  to  tell 


92  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

me  a  thing,"  he  said  with  some  irritation.  "  I  only 
know  what  I  have  read  in  the  papers.  Upon  my  word, 
the  woman's  brazen  insolence!  Was  that  why  they 
dropped  the  charge  of  stealing  the  necklace,  Dick.''  " 

"  The  other  was  dead  certain,"  said  Dick. 

"  Ah,  that's  what  I  thought.  But  people  don't 
think — er " 

"  He  did  give  her  pearls,"  said  Dick,  with  a  matter-of- 
course  air  of  inner  knowledge.  "  And  plenty  of  people 
have  seen  her  wearing  them,  though  she  never  seems  to 
have  worn  them  in  London." 

"  Then  it's  true  about " 

"  About  him.^     Of  course  it  is." 

"  Oh !  I  thought  she  had  made  it  up,  shamelessly, 
because  she  knew  it  couldn't  be  contradicted." 

"  It  could  have  been  contradicted  easily  enough  if 
it  hadn't  been  true.  Everybody  has  known  about  it 
for  years." 

"  But  she  told  the  maid  the  pearls  were  sham  ones." 

"  I  dare  say  she  did.     But  they  weren't." 

"  Then  there  is  really  a  doubt  whether  she  did  steal 
the  necklace  ^  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  It  makes  it  all  the  more 
likely.  She  would  think,  if  it  was  found  out  she  had 
got  rid  of  single  pearls,  she  could  explain  it  by  her  own 
necklace.  The  mistake  she  made  was  in  not  being 
satisfied  with  taking  the  pearls.  If  she  had  left  that 
rotten  little  star  alone,  which  can't  have  been  worth 
more  than  a  hundred  pounds  or  so,  I  doubt  if  they 
would  have  brought  it  home  to  her." 


The  Verdict  93 

"  But  she  may  have  taken  the  star,  and  not 
have  had  time  to  find  the  necklace,  when  Joan  came 
in." 

"  Oh  no.  If  she  had  been  in  the  middle  of  it  Joan 
would  have  caught  her  at  it.  There  was  the  stone  to 
push  back,  as  well  as  the  panel  to  shut.  Besides,  the 
necklace  went.  Who  did  take  it,  if  she  didn't.?  No- 
body else  knew." 

"  Oh,  it's  plain  enough,  of  course.  I  haven't  a  doubt 
about  it.  But  I  thought  you  meant  that  there  was 
some  doubt." 

"  No.  I  only  meant  there  might  have  been,  if  she 
hadn't  taken  the  star.  Of  course,  what  she  did  was  to 
get  rid  of  those  pearls  as  well  as  her  own.  She  hasn't 
known  which  way  to  turn  for  money  for  ever  so  long. 
She  went  out  of  favour  in  that  quarter  a  couple  of  years 
ago,  or  more." 

"  Did  she  make  any  attempt  to  get  her  story 
backed  up  ^  " 

"  Moved  heaven  and  earth,  but  found  the  doors  shut. 
She  found  herself  up  against  the  police  over  there. 
They  told  her  that  if  she  dared  to  whisper  such  a  story 
she  would  get  into  more  serious  trouble  than  she  was  in 
already.  She's  got  pluck,  you  know.  She  must  have 
seen  it  was  no  good,  but  she  was  in  a  royal  rage,  and 
made  her  people  bring  it  up,  out  of  spite.  They  say 
there  were  hints  given;  but  I  doubt  that — in  a  court 
of  law.  Anyhow,  they  wouldn't  have  it,  and  it  didn't 
do  her  any  good." 

"  Well,  it's  a  most  unsavoury  story  altogether,"  said 


94  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

the    Squire.     "  The   woman's   in   prison   now,   and   she 
richly  deserves  it." 

He  and  Dick  discussed  the  matter  for  another  hour, 
and  when  the  Squire  was  helped  up  to  bed  he  repeated 
his  injunctions  to  Mrs.  Clinton  that  it  was  not  to  be 
mentioned  in  the  house  again. 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER    I 

BOBBY    TRENCH    IS    ASKED    TO    KENCOTE 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  I  think  you  might." 

It  was  Bobby  Trench  who  spoke,  in  a  voice  of  injured 
pleading. 

Humphrey  laughed.  "  My  dear  chap,"  he  said,  "  I 
would,  like  a  shot ;  but,  to  be  perfectly  honest  with  you, 
you  haven't  succeeded  in  commending  yourself  to  the 
Governor,  and,  after  all,  it's  his  house  and  not 
mine." 

They  were  driving  to  a  meet  of  hounds.  Humphrey 
had  so  far  taken  to  heart  his  father's  criticisms  upon 
his  metropolitan  mode  of  life  that  he  had  let  his  flat 
for  the  winter  and  taken  a  hunting  box  in  Northampton- 
shire, at  which  Bobby  Trench  was  a  frequent  visitor. 
He  was  being  asked  by  his  friend  to  repeat  the  invita- 
tion he  had  given  him  some  years  before,  to  stay  at 
Kencote  for  some  country  balls,  and  he  was  kindly  but 
firmly  resisting  the  request. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  I  want  to  go  there  for.''  " 

"  Well,  I  can  form  a  rough  guess.  As  far  as  I'm 
concerned,  I  should  welcome  the  idea;  but  I  won't  dis- 
guise it  from  you  that  the  Governor  wouldn't." 

"  Well,  hang  it !  I  may  have  trod  on  his  corns — 
though  I  certainly  never  meant  to,  and  I  like  him 
and  all  that — but  you  can't  say  that  I'm  not  all  right. 

91 


98  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I'm  an  only  son,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't 
see  how  he  could  expect  to  get  anybody  better." 

"Do  you  really  mean  business,  Bobby?" 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  if  I  can  hit  it  off  with  her.  She's  bowled 
me  over.  She's  as  pretty  as  paint,  and  as  bright  and 
clever  as  they  make  'em.  Sweet-tempered  and  kind- 
hearted  too;  and  I  like  that  about  a  girl.  She  was  as 
nice  as  possible  to  my  old  Governor;  took  a  lot  of 
trouble  about  him.  He  thinks  the  world  of  her.  I  tell 
you,  he'd  be  as  pleased  as  Punch." 

"  Have  you  said  anything  to  him  .^  " 

"  No,  not  yet.  To  tell  you  the  truth — I'm  a  modest 
fellow,  though  I'm  not  always  given  the  credit  for  it — 
I'm  not  in  the  least  certain  whether  she'll  see  it  in  the 
same  light  as  I  do.  I  dare  say  that's  what's  brought 
it  on,  you  know.  They've  been  after  me  for  years — it's 
only  natural,  I  suppose — but  what  these  old  dowagers, 
and  lots  of  the  young  women  themselves  too,  don't  seem 
to  understand  is  that  a  man  doesn't  like  being  run  after. 
It  puts  him  oif .  That's  human  nature.  Well,  I  needn't 
tell  you  that  it's  me  that's  got  to  do  all  the  running  this 
time ;  and  it's  a  pleasant  change.  I  suppose  she's  never 
said  anything  to  you  about  me,  has  she  ?  " 

Humphrey  laughed.  He  remembered  a  few  of  the 
things  that  Joan  had  said  to  him  about  his  friend. 

"  She  looks  on  you  as  a  stupendous  joke  so  far,"  he 
said.     "  Still,  she's  hardly  more  than  a  kid." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  Tell  you  the  truth,  when  I  first  felt 
myself  drawn  that  way,  I  said,  '  No,  Robert.  Plenty  of 
time  yet.     If  you  feel  ttie  same  in  a  couple  of  years' 


Bobbij  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote     99 

time,  you  can  let  yourself  go.'  But  I  don't  know. 
Some  other  fellow  might  come  along;  and  I'm  not  fool 
enough  to  think  I've  made  such  an  impression  that  I 
can  afford  to  keep  away  and  let  my  hand  play  itself. 
No,  what  I  want  is  to  get  my  chance ;  I  know  now  what 
I'm  going  to  do  with  it,  and  I  tell  you  I'm  keener  than 
I've  ever  been  about  anything  in  my  life.  Look  here, 
Humphrey,  you've  got  to  get  me  down  to  Kencote 
somehow  after  Christmas.  I  never  see  her  anywhere 
else.  You  ought  not  to  keep  those  girls  shut  up  as  you 
do,  you  know." 

"  I  keep  them  shut  up !  You  talk  as  if  I  were  the 
head  of  my  respected  family.  Well,  look  here.  If  it 
has  really  gone  as  far  as  you  say  it  has,  you'd  better 
write  to  the  Governor.  I  tell  you  plainly,  he  doesn't 
think  much  of  you;  but  he's  an  old  friend  of  your 
father's,  and  he'd  probably  be  no  more  averse  to  seeing 
one  of  his  daughters  marry  a  future  peer  than  an3^body 
else  would.  It  wouldn't  go  all  the  way  with  him,  but 
it  would  go  some  of  the  way." 

"  No,  thanks.  That's  not  my  way  of  doing  things. 
I  want  to  be  loved  for  myself.  If  he  did  take  to  the 
idea,  it  wouldn't  do  me  any  good  to  be  shoved  forward 
in  that  sort  of  light.  Besides,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  don't  believe  I  should  be  half  so  keen  if  I  was  asked 
down  with  that  idea." 

"  Oh,  well !  "  said  Humphrey  with  a  spurt  of  offence. 

"  If  that's  how  you  feel  about  it !     I  don't  care  a 

damn  about  your  peerage,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing; 
I  was  only  thinking  it  might  help  you  over  a  fence  with 


100  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

the  Governor.  My  young  sister  is  good  enough  for 
any  fellow." 

"I  know  that.  I  should  consider  myself  jolly  lucky 
if  she  took  me.  You  needn't  get  shirty.  It's  just  be- 
cause she  is  the  girl  I  want  that  I'm  not  going  to  lose 
any  of  the  fun  of  winning  off  my  own  bat." 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  Humphrey,  after 
further  conversation.  "  But  if  you  go  to  Rome  you've 
got  to  do  as  Rome  does.  You  know  what  my  Governor 
is;  and  he's  got  a  perfect  right  to  run  his  own  show 
as  it  suits  him,  and  not  as  it  suits  other  people.  As  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  I've  come  to  feel  that  Kencote  is  a 
precious  sight  nicer  house  to  go  to  than  a  great  many. 
It's  different,  and  the  others  are  all  just  the  same. 
You've  got  to  keep  to  the  rules,  but  if  you  do  you  have 
a  very  good  time.     It's  a  pleasant  rest." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  feel  just  the  same  as  you  about  it. 
It  reminds  you  of  the  days  of  your  childhood,  and  your 
mother's  knee,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Besides,  they 
do  you  top-hole;  I  will  say  that.  I'm  old  enough  to 
appreciate  it  now ;  of  course,  five  or  six  years  ago  I 
dare  say  I  did  think  it  a  bit  dull,  and  I  may  have  shown 
it,  though  I  never  meant  to  rub  your  old  Governor 
up  the  wrong  way.  Still,  it  will  be  quite  different 
now.  I'll  teach  in  the  Sunday  school  if  he  wants  me 
to." 

"  If  you  go,  you  must  observe  strict  punctuality  as 
to  meals,  and  you  must  do  without  games  on  Sunday, 
and  bally-ragging  generally.  That's  about  all,  and  it 
isn't  so  very  desperate." 


Bobby  Trench  Is  Asked  to' Kencote   101 

"  Not  a  bit ;  and  with  your  sister  tiiet^  it  wiil  be  like 
heaven.     Oh,  you've  got  to  get  me  asked,  Humphrey." 

"  I'll  do  what  I  can.  By  the  by,  don't  say  a  word 
about  the  Amberlcy  business  at  Kencote.  He  doesn't 
like  that  mentioned." 

"  Doesn't  he.^  Righto!  It  was  the  way  your  young 
sister  showed  up  in  that  that  cHnched  it  with  me.  She 
was  topping.  Looked  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  and  never 
let  them  rattle  her  once.  They  took  her  off  the  moment 
she'd  given  her  evidence,  and  I  never  got  the  chance 
of  a  word  with  her.  I've  actually  never  seen  her  since, 
and  that's  a  couple  of  months  ago  now.  Well,  here  we 
are.     I'm  going  to  enjoy  myself  to-day." 

Humphrey  used  his  own  discretion  as  to  disclosing 
something  of  the  state  of  his  friend's  affections  when  he 
and  Susan  went  down  to  Kencote  for  Christmas. 

"  Look  here,  father,  I've  got  something  rather  in- 
teresting to  tell  you.  Bobby  Trench — oh,  I  know  you 
don't  like  him,  but  you'll  find  him  much  improved — 
wants  to  pay  his  addresses  to  Joan." 

"  What !  "  The  Squire's  expression  was  a  mixture 
of  disgust  and  incredulity. 

"  It  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  her.  They've 
been  chasing  him  for  years.  He'll  come  in  for  all  that 
money  of  Lady  Sophia's,  you  know,  as  well  as  every- 
thing else." 

"  Oh,  a  good  match !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire  impa- 
tiently. "  I  wouldn't  have  him  about  the  place  if  he 
was  the  heir  to  a  dukedom.  And  Joan  is  hardly  more 
than  a  child.     Time  enough  for  all  that  in  three  or  four 


1Q2     .     The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

years!  '  And  Ivh^ri  the  time  comes  I  hope  it  will  bring 
somebody  as  unlike  Master  Trench  as  possible." 

Humphrey  was  rather  dashed  at  this  reception  of  his 
news.  He  was  not  quite  so  unaffected  by  Bobby 
Trench's  place  in  the  world  and  his  prospective  wealth 
as  he  had  declared  himself  to  be.  To  see  one  of  his 
sisters  married  thus  had  struck  him  more  and  more  as 
being  desirable,  and  he  had  thought  that  his  father 
would  take  much  the  same  view,  after  a  first  expression 
of  surprise  and  independence. 

"  I  know  he  annoyed  you  when  he  came  here  before," 
he  said.  "  I  told  him  that,  and  said  I  wasn't  surprised 
at  it." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  sorry  you  told  him  that.  I  should 
have  told  him  so  myself  pretty  plainly  if  he  hadn't  been  a 
guest  in  my  house.     What  had  he  got  to  say  to  it?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  sorry  he  had  offended  you.  But  it 
was  a  good  many  years  ago,  and  he  was  a  foci  in  those 
days." 

"  He's  a  fool  now,"  said  the  Squire.  "  When  he 
came  over  here  last  summer,  and  let  us  in  for  all  that 
infernal  annoyance,  which  I  shan't  forgive  him  readily, 
he  was  just  as  impudent  and  superior  as  ever.  A  young 
cub  like  that — not  that  he's  so  very  young  now,  but 
he's  a  cub  all  the  same — seems  to  think  that  because  a 
man  chooses  to  live  on  his  own  property,  and  do  his  duty 
by  the  country,  every  smart  gad-about  with  a  handle 
to  his  name  has  got  a  right  to  look  down  upon  him. 
There  were  Clintons  at  Kencote  when  his  particular 
Trenches   were  pettifogging  tradesmen   in  Yorkshire, 


Bohhij  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote    103 

and  centuries  before  that.  I  don't  deny  that  Sedbergh's 
title  is  a  respectable  one,  as  these  things  go  nowadays, 
but  to  talk  as  if  I  ought  to  think  myself  honoured 
because  a  son  of  his  wants  to  marry  a  daughter  of  mine 
is  pure  nonsense.  Does  Sedbergh  know  anything  about 
this.?" 

"  No.  But  Bobby  says  that  he'll  be  as  pleased  as 
possiblco  He  took  a  great  fancy  to  Joan.  He  said 
she  had  been  better  brought  up  than  any  girl  he  knew." 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  that  himself,  and  I  dare  say  it's 
true.  I've  brought  up  my  children  to  fear  God  and 
behave  themselves  properly.  If  he'd  done  the  same,  or 
his  idiot  of  a  wife,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have 
objected  to  the  idea.  But  your  '  Bobby  '  Trench  isn't 
what  his  father  w^as  at  his  age,  and  not  likely  to  be. 
I  suppose  he  hasn't  had  the  impudence  to  say  anything 
to  Joan  yet.?  " 

"  Oh  no.  She  doesn't  know  anything  about  it.  In 
fact,  he's  not  in  the  least  sure  about  his  chances  wdth 
her.  He  only  wants  an  opportunity  of  what  I  believe 
is  called  preferring  his  suit." 

"  Well,  then,  he  won't  get  it.  I  don't  care  about  the 
arrangement,  and  you  can  tell  him  so,  if  you  like — 
from  me." 

With  this  the  Squire  strode  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Humphrey  not  so  convinced  that  Bobby  Trench  would 
not  be  given  his  opportunity  as  might  have  seemed 
likely. 

The  Squire  spoke  to  his  wife  about  it.  WTiat  non- 
sense was  this  about  something  between  Joan  and  that 


104  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

young  Trench?  Surely  a  girl  of  Joan's  age  might  be 
doing  something  better  than  giving  encouragement 
to  every  crack-brained  young  fool  to  make  free  with 
her  name !  That's  what  came  of  letting  her  run  about 
all  over  the  place,  and  in  all  sorts  of  company,  instead 
of  keeping  her  quietly  at  home,  as  girls  of  that  age 
ought  to  be  kept.  When  the  proper  time  came  he 
should  have  no  objection  to  seeing  her  suitably  married. 
No  doubt  some  nice  young  fellow  would  come  forward, 
whom  they  could  welcome  into  the  family,  just  as  Jim 
Graham  had  come  forward  for  Cicely.  In  the  mean- 
time Joan  had  better  be  kept  from  making  herself  too 
cheap.  She  seemed  to  think  she  could  do  anything  she 
liked,  now  that  she  had  done  with  her  governess.  If 
he  heard  any  more  of  it,  the  governess  should  come 
back,  and  Joan  and  Nancy  should  go  into  the  school- 
room again. 

Mrs.  Clinton  always  had  the  advantage  of  time  to 
think,  when  surprises  of  this  sort  were  sprung  upon 
her.  When  his  speech  came  to  an  end  she  looked  up 
at  him  and  said,  "  I  am  sure  that  Joan  has  not  done 
or  said  anything  that  you  could  blame  her  for,  Edward. 
She  does  not  like  Mr.  Trench.  I  do  not  like  him  either, 
and  I  know  you  don't.     What  is  it  you  have  heard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that  Joan  is  to  blame.  I  don't 
know.  No,  I  don't  think  she  is.  Sedbergh  took  to 
her,  and  said  that  she  had  been  very  well  brought  up. 
He  told  me  that  himself,  and  it  is  quite  true.  I've  no 
fault  to  find  with  Joan  in  this  respect.  She  and  Nancy 
are  good  girls  enough,  though  troublesome  sometimes. 


Bobby  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote    105 

They  will  grow  out  of  that.  She  doesn't  know  anything 
about  tliis,  and  I  don't  want  it  mentioned  to  her.  Younsr 
Trench  has  been  talking  to  Humphrey.  He  wants  to 
come  here  and  pay  his  addresses  to  Joan.  That's  what 
it  comes  to.  I  told  Humphrey  I  wouldn't  have  it,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Edward.  I  don't  think  he  would 
have  any  chance  with  Joan,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  it 
were  otherwise." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  Joan  needn't  be  encouraged  to 
think  that  she's  got  the  whole  world  to  pick  and  choose 
from.  If  this  young  Trench  was  the  man  his  father 
was,  it  would  be  a  very  satisfactory  arrangement.  I 
don't  deny  that.  He  is  the  only  son;  and  I  shouldn't 
be  entitled  to  expect  a  better  marriage  for  a  girl  of 
mine,  if  position  and  money  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
were  everything." 

"  Oh,  but  they  are  not,  are  they?  "  said  Mrs.  Clinton. 
"  They  would  not  count  at  all  if  the  man  to  whom  they 
belonged  were  not  what  you  could  w^ish  him  to  be." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  welcome  a  son-in- 
law  who  had  no  position  and  no  money.  I've  a  right 
to  expect  a  daughter  of  mine  to  marry  into  the  position 
in  which  she  has  been  brought  up.  I  wouldn't  actually 
demand  more  than  that.  Cicely  did  it,  and  I  was  quite 
satisfied.  Still,  I  shouldn't  turn  up  my  nose  at  a  better 
match,  and  there's  no  doubt  that  this  young  Trench, 
if  he  were  all  right,  would  be  an  excellent  match." 

"But  he  is  not,  is  he.^  You  have  always  objected 
to  him." 


106  The  Honour  of  the  Cliritons 

"  I  can't  say  I  know  anything  actually  against  him. 
I  certainly  shouldn't  want  to  see  more  of  him  than  I 
could  help  for  my  own  sake.  What  is  it  you  object 
to  in  him  ?  " 

"  Much  the  same  as  you  do,  Edward.  I  dislike  the 
sort  of  life  he  and  those  about  him  live.  It  is  a  different 
sort  of  life  from  that  which  we  have  encouraged  any 
of  our  children  to  look  forward  to.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  see  Joan  thrown  into  it." 

"  Oh,  thrown  into  it !  Nobody  is  going  to  throw  her 
into  it.  I  have  said  quite  plainly  that  I  don't  like  the 
idea.  I  may  be  old-fashioned — I  dare  say  I  am — but 
I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  to  lose  my  head  with  pride 
because  the  heir  to  a  peerage  wants  to  marry  my 
daughter." 

Mrs.  Clinton  looked  down  and  said  nothing,  but  her 
heart  was  rather  heavy. 

"  Joan  hasn't  said  anything  about  him,  has  she  ? 
Nothing  to  show  that  she  is  aware  that  he — what  shall 
I  say — ^admires  her  ?  " 

"  She  has  made  fun  of  him  constantly,"  said  Mrs. 
Clinton.  "  I  am  glad  that  you  have  refused  to  have 
Mr.  Trench  here.  If  he  came,  and  paid  court  to  her, 
I  cannot  believe  that  she  would  have  anything  to  say 
to  him.  Nothing  would  come  of  it,  except  irritation 
and  annoyance  to  you,  and  pain  to  me,  and  very  pos- 
sibly to  Joan." 

The  Squire  left  her  and  took  his  news  to  Dick. 
"  Your  mother  has  taken  a  strong  prejudice  against 
him,"  he  said.     "  As  far  as  I'm  aware  he  has  never  done 


Bohhif  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote   107 

anylliing  to  deserve  it,  but  women  are  like  that.  They 
take  au  idea  into  their  heads  and  nothing  will  get  it 
out." 

"  Well,  you've  never  shown  any  strong  partiality  for 
him  yourself,  that  I  know  of,"  said  Dick.  "  I  don't 
care  much  about  him,  but  he's  a  harmless  sort  of  idiot. 
I  always  thought  you  were  a  bit  rough  on  him." 

"Did  you?  Well,  perhaps  I  am.  I  must  say  that 
lie  did  annoy  me  infernally  when  he  came  here  before, 
and  if  he  comes  here  again  it  will  be  on  the  distinct 
understanding  that  he  follows  the  rules  of  the  house 
and  behaves  himself.  Kencote  isn't  Brummels,  and 
never  will  be  as  long  as  I'm  alive.  That  has  got  to 
be  made  quite  plain." 

"  Do  you  want  him  to  marry  Joan,  then?  " 

"Want  it?  No,  I  don't  want  it.  Why  should  I 
want  anything  of  the  sort?  I'm  not  in  the  position  of 
having  to  say  '  thank  you  '  to  the  first  man  who  comes 
along  and  wants  to  marry  one  of  my  daughters.  They'll 
marry  well  enough  when  the  time  comes.  Still,  this 
young  fellow  is  the  son  of  one  of  my  oldest  friends, 
and  I've  never  heard  that  there's  actually  anything 
against  him  ;  have  you?  " 

"  No  more  than  what's  on  the  surface.  If  he  married 
Joan,  I  shouldn't  want  to  live  hand  in  glove  with  him." 

"You  wouldn't  object  to  the  marriage  if  it  came 
about?" 

Dick  did  not  reply  at  once. 

'*  It  would  be  a  good  enough  match  from  the  worldly 
point  of  view,"  said  the  Squire. 


108  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Dick  looked  up  quickly.  "  I'm  the  wrong  man  to 
come  to  for  that  point  of  view,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't 
marry  from  it  myself;  nor  did  you." 

The  Squire  digested  this.  "  It's  different  for  men," 
he  said,  with  a  shade  of  unwillingness.  "  You've  got 
to  take  it  into  account  with  women." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  advise  either  one  way  or  the 
other,"  said  Dick.  "  If  Joan  likes  that  sort  of  fellow, 
she's  welcome  to  him ;  if  she  doesn't,  I  shan't  blame  her." 

"You  think  it's  a  matter  for  her  to  decide.'^  " 

"  It  isn't  a  matter  for  me  to  decide." 
^  "  She  can't  very  well  decide  unless  she  sees  him." 

"  Then  let  her  see  him,  if  you're  satisfied  with  him 
yourself.  He's  not  my  fancy ;  but  he  may  be  hers,  for 
all  I  can  tell." 

The  Squire  went  back  to  his  wife  and  told  her  that 
Dick  didn't  care  for  Bobby  Trench  any  more  than  he 
did  himself,  but  had  never  heard  anything  against  him. 
He  didn't  see  any  reason  against  his  seeing  Joan.  She 
could  decide  for  herself.  Nobody  would  bring  any 
pressure  to  bear  on  her.  That  wasn't  the  way  things 
were  done  in  these  days.  But  Lord  Sedbergh  was  one 
of  his  oldest  friends,  and  wouldn't  like  it  if  he  heard 
that  they  had  refused  to  have  his  son  in  the  house.  He 
shouldn't  like  it  himself.  Young  Trench  had  better  be 
asked  to  Kencote  with  the  rest,  for  these  balls  that  were 
coming  on  after  Christmas.  If  he  showed  that  he  had 
anything  in  him,  well  and  good.  If  not,  he  needn't  be 
asked  again,  and  no  harm  would  be  done. 

"I  will  write  to  Mr.   Trench,"  said  Mrs.   Clinton. 


Bobby  Trench  Is  Asked  to  Kencote    109 

"  But  I  am  sorry   that  you  have  decided  to  ask  him 
here." 

The  Squire  went  away  vaguely  dissatisfied  with  him- 
self, but  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that  women  didn't 
understand  these  things. 


CHAPTER   II 


JOAN    AND    NANCY 


"  My  sweet  old  Joan,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Joan  buried  her  fair  head  in  Virginia's  skirts  and 
burst  into  tears.  She  was  sitting  on  the  rug  in  front 
of  the  fire  by  Virginia's  side,  in  the  gloaming. 

Virginia  put  her  slim  hand  on  to  her  shoulder,  and 
caressed  her  lightly.  "  It's  too  bad,"  she  said  gently, 
with  her  soft,  hardly  distinguishable  American  intona- 
tion. 

"  I'm  such  a  fool,"  said  Joan.  "  I  don't  know  what 
I  want.     I  don't  want  anything." 

She  dried  her  eyes,  but  still  kept  her  head  on  Vir- 
ginia's knee,  and  put  up  her  hand  to  give  Virginia's 
a  little  squeeze.  It  was  comforting  to  be  with  her, 
looking  into  the  fire. 

"  It's  about  John  Spence,  isn't  it,  dear.^^  "  Virginia 
asked. 

"  I'm  a  fool,"  said  Joan  again.  "  I  don't  like  him  as 
much  as  I  used  to." 

"  Is  that  why  you're  a  fool.^^  "  asked  Virginia  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  No,"  said  Joan  seriously.  "  For  caring  about 
things  changing,  because  one  is  grown  up.  I  used  to 
think  it  would  be  nothing  but  bliss  to  be  grown  up. 
Now  I  wish  Nancy  and  I  were  little  girls  again.     We 

110 


Joan  and  Nancy  111 

used  to  be   very  happy   together.     We   always   talked 
about  everything,  it  didn't  matter  what  it  was." 

"And  now  you  don't.  You  don't  talk  about  John 
Spence." 

Joan's  tears  flowed  afresh.  "  I  don't  want  to  talk 
about  it,  Virginia,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sure  you  would 
never  understand  what  I  feel.  Whatever  I  said  you 
would  think  I  meant  something  else;  and  I  don't  a  bit. 
I  don't  mind  his  liking  Nancy  best.  I  don't  want  him 
to  like  me  more  than  he  does." 

"  Oh,  my  darling  girl !  I  think  I  understand  it  all 
better  than  you  do  yourself.  You  are  unhappy,  and 
you  don't  know  why." 

"  Then  tell  me  why." 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  you  are  just  a  httle  jealous." 

"  Oh,  Virginia  !     And  you  said  you  understood !  " 

"  You  are  jealous,  just  as  you  would  be  if  Dick  were 
suddenly  to  show  that  he  liked  Nancy  better  than 
you." 

"  We  used  to  have  such  fun  together,  all  three  of 
us.  It  never  entered  the  heads  of  either  of  us  to 
think  which  he  liked  the  best.  He  liked  us  both  just 
the  same.  Why  couldn't  it  go  on  like  that.?  I've  done 
nothing.  It  was  after  I  came  back  from  that  horrid 
Brummels.  He  didn't  like  my  going  there — not  that 
it  had  anything  to  do  with  him.  He  was  just  like 
father  about  it,  and  tried  to  make  out  that  it  had 
altered  me.  It  hadn't  altered  me  at  all.  I  was  just 
the  same  as  I  had  always  been.  It  was  he  that  had 
altered." 


112  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Can't  you  see,  little  girl,  that  it  couldn't  always  go 
on  as  it  used  to  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  How  can  a  man  fall  in  love  with  two  girls  at  once? 
He  must  choose  one  of  them,  or  neither." 

"  I  didn't  want  him  to  fall  in  love  with  me,"  said 
Joan  quickly.  "  I  am  not  in  love  with  him.  That's 
why  it's  so  difficult  to  say  anything.  If  I'm  unhappy, 
It  looks  as  if  I  must  be." 

"  Not  to  me,  dearest  Joan.  But  you  can  be  jealous 
about  people  without  being  in  love  with  them.  You 
know,  darling,  I  think  John  Spence  was  almost  bound 
to  fall  in  love  with  one  of  you  almost  directly  you 
grew  up.  I  should  have  been  very  much  surprised  if 
he  hadn't.  But  I  could  never  tell  which  it  would  be. 
It  was  just  as  it  happened  to  turn  out.  He  came  here 
when  you  were  away,  and  that  just  turned  the  scale. 
After  that  it  couldn't  possibly  be  as  it  had  been  before, 
when  you  were  both  children;  not  even  if  you  had  be- 
haved well  about  it." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Joan,  sitting  up  sharply. 

Virginia  smiled,  and  drew  her  back  to  her.  "  You 
haven't  been  kind  to  Nancy,  you  know,"  she  said. 

Joan  did  not  resist  her,  but  said  rather  stiffly,  "  It's 
she  who  hasn't  been  kind  to  me." 

"How?" 

"  She  has  said  nothing  to  me.  I  don't  know  even 
what  she  thinks  about  it  all.  If  you  say  I  am  jealous, 
that  is  what  I  am  jealous  about.  I  don't  even  know 
that  he  is  in  love  with  her;  and  if  he  is,  whether  she 


Joan  and  Nancy  113 

knows  it.  She  acts  exactly  as  we  always  used  to  with 
him,  and  as  I  did,  until  I  saw    he  didn't  want  me  to." 

"  And  then  you  became  offended,  and  rather  ostenta- 
tiously left  them  together  whenever  he  came  on  the 
scene." 

"  Well,  if  he  wanted  Nancy,  and  didn't  want  me,  I 
wasn't  going  to  push  myself  forward." 

"  Poor  John  Spence !  "  said  Virginia.  "  He  is  very 
disturbed  about  you.  1  think  he  is  very  much  in  love 
with  Nancy.  It  has  become  plain  even  to  my  obtuse  old 
Dick  now.  But  he  might  so  easily  have  been  very  much 
in  love  with  you,  instead,  that  it  troubles  his  dear  simple 
icandid  old  soul  to  think  you  have  so  changed.  As 
far  as  he  is  concerned,  he  would  like  nothing  better 
than  to  be  on  the  old  terms  with  you.  He  wouldn't 
like  you  any  the  less  because  he  likes  Nancy  more." 

"  It  is  Nancy  I  am  thinking  of,"  said  Joan  after  a 
pause.  "  She  always  has  been  just  a  little  hard,  and 
she  is  hard  without  a  doubt  now.  Fancy,  Virginia — 
somebody  being  in  love  with  her,  and  showing  it,  and 
her  never  saying  one  single  word  to  me  about  it ! 
Talking  about  anything  else,  but  never  about  the  only 
thing  that  she  must  be  thinking  about !  " 

"  Don't  you  think  she  may  be  thinking  you  just  a 
little  hard.^  Fancy — somebody  being  in  love  with  her, 
and  showing  it,  and  Joan  not  saying  a  word  to  her 
about  it!  Talking  about  anything  else,  but  never  the 
one  thing!  " 

Joan  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  If  it  hadn't 
begun  as  it  did  I  should  have  done  everything  I  could 


114  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

to  please  her,"  she  said.  "I  should  have  been  just  as 
interested  and  perhaps  excited  about  it,  for  her  sake, 
as  she  could  have  been  herself.  She  could  have  told  me 
everything  she  was  feeling,  and  now  she  tells  me  nothing. 
I  suppose  when  he  has  proposed  to  her,  if  he  does,  she 
will  tell  mc,  just  as  she  might  tell  me  if  anybody  had 
asked  her  the  time ;  and  then  she  will  ask  me  what  I  am 
going  to  wear.  Oh,  everything  ought  to  be  different 
between  us  just  now." 

"  Yes,  it  ought,"  said  Virginia.  "  Dear  Joan,  you 
and  Nancy  mustn't  go  on  like  this.  I  don't  think 
Nancy  is  hard ;  I  am  sure  she  isn't  in  this  case. 
She  must  be  feeling  it — not  to  be  able  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  If  I  thought  that !  " 

"  Darling,  you  know  her  so  well — almost  as  well  as 
you  know  yourself.  Can't  you  see  that  it  must  be  so.'* 
Can't  you  make  it  easy  for  her  to  talk  to  you?  It 
would  do  away  with  your  own  unhappiness.  It  is  that 
that  you  are  really  unhappy  about.  Life  is  changing 
all  about  you.  You  are  a  child  no  longer,  and  you 
have  nothing  to  put  in  the  place  of  what  you  are  losing. 
You  are  feeling  lonely,  and  out  of  it  all.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  it.  It  used  to  be  so  jolly 
only  a  very  short  time  ago — when  Frank  was  home 
in  the  summer.  Now  Kencote  doesn't  seem  like  the 
same  place.     I  should  like  to  go  away." 

"  You  wouldn't  feel  the  change  so  much  if  you  and 
Nancy  were  what  vou  have  always  been  to  each  other. 


Joan  and  Nancy  115 

Joan  dear,  it  is  for  you  to  take  the  first  step.  Show 
Nancy  that  you,  of  all  people,  are  the  most  pleased  at 
the  happiness  that  is  coming  to  her.  I  am  quite  sure 
she  will  respond." 

Joan's  tears  came  again.  "  I  don't  think  she  wants 
me  now,"  she  said.  "  She  has  somebody  else,  and  I  have 
nobody.  At  least,  I  have  you — and  mother.  But 
Nancy  and  I  have  been  almost  like  one  person." 

"  She  does  want  you,  Joan.  She  must  want  you, 
Just  as  much  as  you  want  her.  But  she  won't  say  so 
unless  you  give  her  the  chance." 

"  Dear  old  Nancy  !  "  said  Joan  softly.  "  I  have  been 
rather  a  pig  to  her.     But  I  won't  be  any  more." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Joan  said,  "  There 
is  something  else,  Virginia.  Why  has  Bobby  Trench 
been  asked  to  come  here  to-morrow  .f^  " 

Virginia  laughed,  after  a  momentary  pause.  "  I 
expect  he  asked  himself,"  she  said.  "  Hasn't  he  shown 
himself  to  be  a  great  admirer  of  yours,  Joan?  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Joan  without  a  smile.  "  I  have  never 
shown  myself  to  be  a  great  admirer  of  his.  Virginia, 
I  can't  understand  it.  I  know  mother  wrote  to  him. 
I  asked  her  why,  and  she  said  Humphrey  had  wanted 
him  asked,  and  father  had  said  that  he  might  be.  She 
didn't  seem  to  want  to  talk  about  him,  and  I  could  see 
that  she  didn't  like  him,  and  was  sorry  to  have  to  ask 
him.  It  is  father  I  don't  understand.  He  has  almost 
foamed  at  the  mouth  whenever  Bobby  Trench's  name 
has  been  mentioned,  and  you  know  what  a  frightful 
^uss   he   made    when    I   went    to   Brummels,   and    when 


116  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Bobbj  Trench  came  here  about  that  Amberley  affair. 
He  said  he  shouldn't  be  let  in  if  he  came  again." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  know  what  your  father  is.  He 
could  no  more  act  inhospitably  to  anybody  than -" 

"  Oh,  Virginia,  that's  nonsense.  He  was  quite  rude 
to  him  when  he  came.  Besides,  it's  a  different  thing 
altogether,  asking  him  to  come.  He  needn't  have  done 
that.     Wiiy  did  he  do  it.?  " 

"Isn't  Lord  Sedbergh  an  old  friend  of  his.''" 

"  Virginia,  I  believe  you  are  in  the  conspiracy  against 
me.  I  hate  Bobby  Trench,  and  when  he  comes  here  I 
won't  have  a  thing  to  say  to  him.  If  father  wants  him 
here,  he  can  look  after  him  himself.  I  couldn't  believe 
it  when  it  first  came  into  my  head;  but  father  said 
something  to  ine,  after  he  had  looked  at  me  once  or 
twice  in  an  odd  sort  of  way,  almost  as  if  I  were  a 
person  he  didn't  know." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you.'*  " 

"  Oh,  something  about  him,  I  forget  what  now.  And 
when  I  said  what  an  idiot  I  thought  he  was,  he  was 
quite  annoyed,  and  said  I  ought  not  to  talk  about 
people  in  that  way.  How  can  father  be  so  changeable? 
He  treats  us  as  if  nobody  had  any  sense  but  himself, 
and  lays  down  the  law ;  and  then,  even  in  a  question  in 
which  you  agree  with  him,  you  find  that  all  his  sound 
and  fury  means  nothing  at  all,  and  he  has  turned  com- 
pletely round." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  we  are  not  all  the  same.  Your 
father  speaks  very  strongly  whatever  is  in  his  mind  at 
the  moment,  and  if  he  has  cause  to  change  his  mind 


Joan  and  Nancy  117 

he  is  just  as  strong  on  the  other  side.  It  was  so  with 
me,  you  know  well  enough.  He  wouldn't  hear  a  word 
in  my  favour;  and  now  he  likes  me  almost  as  much  as 
Dick  does.  You  have  to  dig  down  deeper  than  his 
speech  to  find  what  is  fixed  in  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  anything  is  fixed.  Anyone 
would  have  said  that  he  had  a  real  dislike  to  Brummels, 
and  all  that  goes  with  it.  I  am  sure  he  made  fuss 
enough  when  I  went  there,  and  has  gone  on  making  it 
ever  since;  and  Bobby  Trench  summed  it  all  up  for 
him.  He  wouldn't  have  this  and  he  wouldn't  have  that ; 
and  Kencote,  and  the  way  we  live  here,  was  the  only 
sort  of  life  that  anybody  ought  to  live.  Oh,  you  know 
it  all  by  heart.  And  then,  just  as  one  is  beginning 
to  think  there  is  something  in  it,  and  that  we  luive  been 
very  happy  living  quietly  here,  one  finds  that  he,  of  all 
people,  wants  something  else." 

"What  does  he  want.?" 

"  What  does  he  w^ant  for  me?  Does  he  want  Bobby 
Trench,  Virginia.?  There!  You  don't  say  anything. 
You  are  in  the  conspiracy.  I  won't.  Nothing  will 
make  me." 

"  My  dear  child,  there  is  no  conspiracy.  And  if 
there  were,  I  shouldn't  be  in  it.  /  don't  want  Bobby 
Trench  for  you ;  I  want  somebody  much  better.  But  I 
don't  want  anybody,  yet  awhile.  I  want  to  keep 
you." 

"  Doesn't  mother  want  to  keep  me?  Does  she  want 
Bobby  Trench  for  me?" 

"  No,  I  am  quite  sure  she  doesn't." 


118  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"Then  what  is  it  all  about?  Oh,  I  am  very  un- 
happy, Virginia.  I  want  to  talk  it  all  over  with  Nancy ; 
but  I  can't  now.  It  is  just  as  if  everything  were 
falling  away  from  me.  Nobody  cares.  A  little  time 
ago  I  should  have  gone  to  mother  if  I  had  hurt  my 
finger.  I  feel  all  alone.  Why  does  father  want  to 
bring  Bobby  Trench  worrying  me,  of  all  the  people  in 
the  world.?" 

"  Dearest  Joan,  you  are  making  too  much  of  it. 
You  talk  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  forced  into  some- 
thing you  don't  like." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  feel  is  happening.  It  isn't 
like  Kencote;  not  like  anything  I  have  known.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  were  a  little  girl  again." 

"  My  dear,  put  it  like  this ;  somebody  Is  bound  to 
want  you,  sooner  or  later.  I  suppose  somebody  wants 
you  now.  He  moves  mountains  to  get  at  you,  and 
find  out  whether  you  want  him.  You  don't,  and  that 
is  all  there  is  to  say  about  it." 

"  It  might  be,"  said  Joan,  "  if  it  weren't  that  father 
is  one  of  the  mountains.  He  is  one  that  is  very  easily 
shifted.  Oh,  I'm  not  a  cliild  any  longer.  I  do  know 
something  about  the  world.  I  do  know  quite  well  that 
if  he  were  not  who  he  is,  father  would  not  have  him 
near  the  place.  Money  and  rank — those  are  what  he 
really  cares  about,  though  he  pretends  to  despise 
them — in  anybody  else.  What  is  the  good  of  belonging 
to  an  old  and  proud  family,  as  we  do,  if  you  can't  be 
just  a  little  prouder  than  the  rest.^^  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  as  a  product  of  a  country  where 


Joan  and  Nancy  119 

those  things  don't  count  for  much,  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  I  think  it  isn't  much  good.  People  are  what  their 
characters  and  surroundings  make  them." 

"  Father  wouldn't  say  that.  He  would  say  that 
blood  counted  for  a  lot.  I  am  quite  sure  he  would  say 
that  people  like  us  had  a  finer  sense  of  honour  than 
people  who  are  nobodies  by  birth.  I  don't  think  he 
comes  out  of  the  test  very  well.  I  think  if  anything 
were  to  happen  to  him  where  his  birth  and  his  position 
•wouldn't  help  him,  his  honour  wouldn't  be  finer  than 
an3'body  else's.  If  he  were  to  lose  all  his  money,  for 
instance — I  think  he  would  feel  that  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world.  He  would  be  stripped  of  almost 
everything.      No-one   would  know  him." 

"  Oh,  Joan  darling,  you  mustn't  say  things  like  that. 
It  isn't  like  you." 

Poor  Joan,  her  mind  at  unrest,  her  first  glimpse  of 
the  world  outside  the  sheltered  garden  of  her  childhood 
showing  her  only  the  chill  loneliness  of  its  battling 
crowds,  was  not  in  a  mood  to  insist  upon  her  dis- 
coveries. 

"  It  does  make  me  feel  rather  bitter,"  she  said  through 
her  tears.     "  But  I  don't  want  to  be." 

As  she  and  Nancy  were  dressing  for  dinner,  she  said 
lightl}',  but  with  a  strained  look  in  her  e3'es,  "  The 
conquering  Bobby  Trench  will  be  here  by  this  time 
to-morrow.  Nancy,  you  are  not  to  go  leaving  me  alone 
with  him." 

Nancy  looked  up  at  her  sharply,  but  her  face  was 
hidden,  and  she  did  not  see   the  look  in  it,  the  look 


120  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

which  hoped  for  a  warm  return  to  their  old  habit  of 
discussing  everything  and  everybody  together. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  take  him  off  your 
hands  so  that  you  can  devote  yourself  to  John  Spence?  " 
she  said. 

If  Joan  was  ready  to  mention  names,  she  was  ready 
too.  Her  meaning  was  not  so  unkind  as  her  words ; 
but  how  was  Joan,  ready  to  smart  at  a  touch,  to  know 
that? 

She  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said 
with  a  quiver,  "  I  don't  want  to  devote  myself  to  him. 
He  likes  you  best." 

Nancy  heard  the  quiver,  and  it  moved  her;  but  not 
enough  to  soothe  the  soreness  she  felt  against  Joan. 
Joan  might  be  ready  now,  unwillingly,  to  accept  the 
fact  that  John  Spence  liked  Nancy  best;  but  she  had 
stood  out  against  it  for  a  long  time,  and  had  not  taken 
the  discovery  in  the  way  that  Nancy  was  convinced  she 
would  have  taken  it  herself,  if  Joan  had  been  the 
preferred. 

"  If  he  does,  it  is  your  fault,"  she  said.  "  I've  not 
tried  to  make  him.  I  have  only  been  just  the  same  as 
I  always  was ;  and  you  have  been  quite  different." 

There  was  nothing  in  this  speech  that  would  have 
struck  Joan  as  unkind  a  few  months  before.  But  the 
tension  was  too  great  now  to  bear  of  the  old  outspoken- 
ness between  them.  How  could  Virginia  say  that  Nancy 
wasn't  hard.?  She  only  wanted  to  make  friends,  but 
Nancy  wanted  to  quarrel.  But  she  would  not  be  hard 
in  return. 


Joan  and  Nancy  121 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  rather  a  pig,"  she  said.  "  I 
haven't  meant  to  be ;  and  I  shan't  be  any  more." 

Nancy  was  conquered.  The  tears  came  into  her  own 
eyes.  All  that  Virginia  said  of  her  was  true.  She 
had  been  aching  for  the  old  intimacy  with  Joan,  more 
than  ever  now  that  such  wonderful  things  were  hap- 
pening to  her,  and  she  had  to  keep  them  uncomfortably 
locked  up  in  her  own  breast. 

But  Nancy  would  never  cry  if  she  could  possibly  stop 
herself.  It  was  a  point  of  honour  with  her,  which 
Joan,  with  whom  tears  came  more  readily,  had  always 
understood.  If  they  were  to  get  back  on  to  the  old 
ground,  signs  of  emotion  on  Joan's  part  would  properly 
be  met  by  a  dry  carelessness  on  hers. 

"  Well,  you  have  been  rather  a  pig,"  she  said,  ready 
to  fall  on  Joan's  neck,  and  give  way  to  her  own  feelings 
without  restraint,  when  the  proprieties  had  once  been 
observed.  "  But  if  you're  not  going  to  be  any  more, 
I'll  forgive  you." 

Joan  was  too  troubled  to  recognise  this  speech  as  a 
prelude  to  complete  capitulation.  She  had  gone  as  far 
as  she  could,  and  thought  that  Nancy  was  repulsing 
her.  She  now  burst  into  open  tears,  into  which  wounded 
pride  entered  as  much  as  wounded  affection.  "  You're 
a  beast,"  she  cried,  using  the  free  language  of  their 
childhood.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  forgive  me.  I've 
done  nothing  to  be  forgiven  for.  I  only  thought  you 
might  want  to  be  friends  again.  But  if  you  don't,  I 
don't  either.     I  shan't  try  again." 

Nancy  wavered  for  a  moment.     Then  the  memory  of 


122  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

her  own  grievances  rushed  back  upon  her,  and  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  All  right,"  she  said.  "  If 
you're  satisfied,  I'm  sure  I  am.  I  should  have  been  quite 
read}^  to  be  friends,  but  it's  impossible  with  you  as  you 
are  now.  I  should  leave  off  crying  if  I  were  you.  You 
won't  be  fit  to  be  seen." 


CHAPTER  III 


HUMPHREY   AND   SUSAN 


Humphrey  and  Susan  arrived  at  Kencote  on  a  waft  of 
good  fortune.  A  widowed  aunt  of  Susan's,  a  lady  of 
unaccountable  actions,  from  whom  it  had  never  been 
safe  to  expect  anything,  whether  good  or  bad,  had  died 
and  left  her  niece  a  "  little  place." 

In  the  satisfaction  induced  by  this  acquisition,  which 
seemed  to  endorse,  almost  supernaturally,  his  own  oft- 
tendered  advice,  the  Squire  looked  upon  his  daughter- 
in-law  with  new  eyes.  Her  faults  were  forgotten ; 
she  was  no  longer,  at  best,  a  mere  ornamental 
luxury  of  a  wife,  at  worst  a  too  expensive  one ;  she 
had  brought  land  into  the  family,  or,  at  an}^  rate — for 
there  was  very  little  land — property.  She  took  her 
stand,  in  a  small  way,  with  those  heiresses  with  whom 
the  Clintons  had  from  time  to  time  allied  themselves, 
not  infrequently  to  the  permanent  enhancement  of  the 
rooted  Kencote  dignity,  and  occasionall}'  to  the  swell- 
ing of  one  of  the  buds  of  the  prolific  Clinton  tree  into 
the  proud  state  of  a  branch.  This  had  happened,  many 
generations  before,  in  the  case  of  the  ancestor  from 
whom  Susan,  a  born  Clinton,  had  herself  sprung,  and 
had  helped  to  the  nurture  of  that  particular  branch  so 
effectively  that  its  umbrage  was  more  conspicuous  than 

that  of  the  parent  stem  itself. 

123 


124  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

What  Susan  now  brought  would  hardly  have  that 
effect.  Looked  at  rigorously  in  the  mouth,  her  gift- 
horse  might  even  have  received  a  cool  welcome  in  some 
stables.  There  was  the  house,  situated  on  the  borders 
of  the  New  Forest,  charmingly  enough,  photographed 
as  a  pleasant,  two-storied,  creeper-decked  villa  suitable 
for  the  occupation  of  a  lady  of  high  rank  and  not  more 
than  adequate  means.  And  there  were  gardens,  pad- 
docks, and  a  few  acres  of  half-tamed  forest,  not  more 
than  twenty  or  five  and  twenty  in  all.  There  were  also 
the  contents  of  the  house,  faded  carpets,  crowded  knick- 
knacks,  Berlin  wool-work,  theological  library,  crayon 
drawings,  and  all.  But  there  was  no  money.  That 
had  been  left  to  old  servants,  to  "  Societies,"  and  to 
the  support  of  otherwise  homeless  cats  and  dogs,  whose 
sad  friendless  state  this  old  lady  had  had  much  at 
heart. 

"  It  will  want  a  great  deal  of  doing  up,"  Lady  Susan 
said.  "  The  papers  are  too  hideous  for  words,  there's 
no  sign  of  a  bathroom,  and  the  outbuildings  are 
tumbling  to  pieces." 

Nevertheless  she  seemed  to  be  in  high  spirits  over 
her  legacy,  and  the  Squire,  shutting  his  eyes  to  the 
state  of  the  wallpapers  and  the  outbuildings,  and 
remembering  only  the  acreage,  congratulated  her,  and 
himself,  warmly  on  the  heritage. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  great  piece  of  luck. 
You  are  lucky,  you  know,  you  and  Humphrey.  He 
could  never  have  expected  the  life  interest  of  practically 
the  whole  of  old  Aunt  Laura's  money,  and  now  this  has 


Humijlirey  and  Susan  125 

come  just  to  point  out  the  way  in  which  you  ought  to 
enjoy  your  good  fortune.  The  place  produces  noth- 
ing— well,  that  can't  he  helped.  At  any  rate  you  live 
rent  free,  with  your  foot  on  your  own  little  piece  of 
ground ;  and  you  throw  over  all  that  nonsense  which  by 
this  time  I  should  think  you're  getting  heartily  sick  and 
tired  of." 

There  was  hint  of  interrogation  in  the  tone  of  the 
last  sentence,  and  it  was  responded  to  in  a  way  to 
bring  the  Squire  into  still  closer  approving  accord  with 
his  daughter-in-law. 

"  Oh  yes.  We  are  both  tired  of  it.  We  are  going 
to  get  rid  of  the  flat  directly  Denny  Croft  is  ready 
for  us.  I  am  going  to  turn  into  a  regular  country- 
woman. I  shall  wear  thick  boots,  and  keep  chickens. 
We  are  going  to  economise  too.  We  shall  only  keep 
three  horses  and  a  pony.  And  Humphrey  says  he 
shall  drink  a  great  deal  of  beer.  We  are  going  to  like 
ourselves  tremendously  in  the  country." 

The  Squire  told  Mrs.  Clinton  that  nothing  had 
pleased  him  better  for  a  long  time  than  the  way  Susan 
was  taking  up  with  the  idea  of  country  life.  "  It  is 
the  best  thing  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "  It  has  made  a 
different  woman  of  her  already.  She  is  brighter  and 
steadier  at  the  same  time.  It  proves  what  I  have  always 
said,  that  that  London  life,  if  you  go  on  living  it  year 
after  year,  is  simply  another  name  for  boredom.  Who 
would  have  thought  a  year  or  two  ago  that  Susan 
would  have  been  satisfied  with  anything  else?  Yet 
here  she  is,  overjoyed  at  the  idea  of  escaping  from  it. 


126  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Nina,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  the  finger  of  Providence 
is  to  be  seen  here.  The  property  is  nothing  much, 
after  all — ^just  a  little  bit  of  land  to  give  them  a  hold 
on  things.  But  if  it  hadn't  come,  I  doubt  if  they 
would  have  made  the  change.  I  think  we  ought  to  be 
very  thankful  that  things  are  ordered  for  us  in  the 
way  they  are." 

Humphrey,  accepting  Dick's  congratulations  on 
Susan's  legacy,  expressed  himself  moderately  satisfied. 
"  It's  not  going  to  make  millionaires  of  us,"  he  said. 
"  In  fact,  it  will  be  a  pretty  tight  squeeze  to  get  the 
place  made  habitable.  The  old  lady  might  have  left 
something  to  go  with  it,  instead  of  muddling  away 
everything  quite  uselessly  as  she  did.  It  would  have 
made  all  the  difference  to  us.  Still,  it  has  shoved  us 
into  making  the  change,  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  able  to  amuse  yourself 
there  all  right,"  said  Dick.  "  You'll  save  three  hun- 
dred a  year  over  your  rent,  for  one  thing.  But  I  don't 
know — if  you  get  into  the  way  of  going  up  to  London 
constantly,  you'll  soon  mop  that  up." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I'm  not  going  to.  I  don't  say  we're 
going  to  bury  ourselves  there  entirely,  but  we  shall 
stick  to  it  pretty  well.  And  when  we  do  go  up  to  town 
we  can  put  up  with  Susan's  people,  or  somewhere." 

"  Yes.  If  you'll  take  a  word  of  warning,  it's  quite 
possible  you  may  find  it  a  bit  slow  after  the  novelty 
has  worn  off.  I  don't  myself,  because  I've  got  what 
amounts  to  a  job  here.  But  you  won't  have;  and  you 
were   always   keener   on   town   pleasures    than   I   was. 


Humphreij  and  Susan  127 

You'll  have  to  watch  it  a  bit  after  the  first  month 
or  two." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  I've  got  all  that  in  my  mind. 
One  has  to  do  one  or  the  other;  one  can't  do  both;  or, 
at  least,  most  of  us  can't.  I  tell  you,  I've  had  a 
sickener  of  the  other.  It  isn't  good  enough.  This 
will  be  a  change,  and  I  want  a  change." 

More  seemed  to  be  coming,  and  Dick  waited  for  it 
to  come,  after  saying  rather  perfunctorily,  "  Susan 
seems  to  like  the  idea  too." 

"  I'm  glad  to  say  she  does,"  said  Humphrey;  "more 
than  I  should  have  thought  she  would.  Of  course, 
she's  excited  at  having  the  place  left  to  her,  and  she's 
going  to  have  no  end  of  fun  over  rigging  it  up.  I 
shall  have  to  be  careful  how  I  go,  there.  It's  a  new 
toy ;  and  my  experience  is  that  new  toys  are  apt  to 
run  you  into  a  lot  of  money.  Still,  I've  warned  her 
about  that,  and  told  her  that  when  we  go  to  Denny 
Croft  we  stop  there ;  and  she  says  she  doesn't  want 
anything  better.  I  tell  you,  it's  a  weight  off  my  mind 
to  find  her  ready  to  take  a  sensible  view  of  things." 

Still  Dick  waited  for  more. 

"We  ought  to  have  been  able  to  do  all  right,"  said 
Humphrey,  after  a  slight  pause.  "  I  don't  like  giving 
up  London,  and  that's  a  fact.  I  can  amuse  mj^self  in 
the  country  all  right,  couldn't  do  without  it  altogether — 
I'm  not  a  born  townsman,  like  some  fellows — but  I 
prefer  it  to  go  to,  not  to  live  in.  But  I'm  ready  to  do 
anything  and  go  anywhere,  to  get  rid  of  the  beastly 
burden  of  things.     That's  why  I  welcome  the  change." 


128  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  You  won't  find  it  such  an  unpleasant  change." 

"  As  things  are,  it  will  be  the  greatest  relief.  And 
yet  other  people  manage  to  get  on,  and  do  everything 
we  have  done,  on  less  than  we  have." 

"  Well,  you've  neither  of  you  got  what  you  might 
call  a  passion  for  economy." 

"  I  believe  I'm  getting  it,"  said  Humphrey  with  a 
laugh.  "  I've  begun  to  keep  accounts.  When  I  looked 
into  things  a  year  or  two  ago,  and  the  Governor  squared 
us  up,  I  told  Susan  that  it  mustn't  happen  again.  I 
made  estimates  and  got  her  to  agree  with  them." 

"  It  is  the  only  way,  if  you  want  to  know  what  you're 
spending.  I  do  it  as  a  matter  of  principle.  Besides, 
you  get  more  for  your  money.  The  difficulty  is  to  keep 
to  your  estimates,  I  suppose,  if  you've  been  spending 
too  much." 

"  I've  kept  to  mine — the  personal  ones,  I  mean.  But 
I  don't  know  how  it  is — Susan  doesn't  seem  to  be 
able  to." 

"  Well,  then,  you've  got  to  make  her,"  said  Dick 
firmly.  He  had  no  love  for  his  sister-in-law,  and  was 
prepared  to  resist  on  his  father's  behalf  the  further 
demands  which  he  thought  he  saw  coming.  "  After  all, 
it's  mostly  your  money,  and  it's  for  you  to  say  how 
it  shall  be  spent." 

Humphrey,  understanding  quite  well  the  source  of 
this  decisive  speech,  flushed.  "  I'm  not  in  debt,"  he 
said  shortly. 

"  Oh  ! "     Dick  was  rather  taken  aback. 

"I  suppose  when  you've  once  played  the  fool,  every- 


Humphrey  and  Susan  129 

body  you  talk  to  about  money  thinks  you  must  be  try- 
ing to  get  something  out  of  them.  I  believe  the 
Governor  has  an  idea  in  his  head  that  I'm  coming  to 
him  shortly  with  another  tale  of  woe.  If  you  get  an 
opportunity,  j^ou  might  disabuse  his  mind  of  it.  I 
don't  say  I  don't  owe  a  bill  or  two,  but  they  are  nothing 
to  count." 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  misunderstood  you.  I've  had  some 
experience  of  keeping  within  limits,  and  if  I  can  lend 
you  a  hand  over  getting  3^our  house  put  into  order 
without  wasting  money,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so.  In 
fact,  if  you  want  a  hundred  or  two  towards  it,  I  dare 
sa}'  I  can  manage  to  let  you  have  it.     Pleased  to." 

"  Thanks,  Dick,  it's  awfully  good  of  you."  Hum- 
phrey was  moved  by  this  offer.  Dick  was  generous  with 
money,  but  knew  its  value.  An  offer  of  this  sort  from 
him  meant  more  than  was  betokened  by  the  matter-of- 
fact  tone  in  which  it  was  made.  "  As  a  loan,  it  might 
help  me  over  a  corner,  for  I've  nothing  in  hand.  But 
I  shall  keep  things  down  for  a  year  or  two,  and  take 
the  cost  of  doing  up  the  place  into  account." 

"  Right  you  are,  old  chap.  We'll  go  into  it,  and  I'll 
let  you  know  what  I  can  do." 

"  Thanks.  It  will  make  things  a  good  deal  easier. 
I'm  a  reformed  character.     I  hate  not  seeing  my  way, 


now." 


The  phrase  struck  Dick  agreeably.  It  was  what, 
with  his  cool  robust  sense,  he  regarded  as  the  one  thing 
necessary,  if  life  was  to  be  ordered  on  a  satisfactory 
basis.     He  would  have  had  no  anxiety  about  money  if 


130  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

his  own  income  had  been  cut  down  to  a  pittance.  He 
would  have  done  without  anything  rather  than  forestall 
it  by  a  week.  He  had  expressed  himself  freely  about 
Humphrey's  insane  blindness,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  this 
respect ;  but  now  he  seemed  to  have  learnt  his  lesson, 
and  Dick's  feelings  warmed  towards  him. 

"  How  has  it  gone  wrong  .^^  "  he  asked,  with  more 
interest  than  he  had  shown  hitherto. 

"  It  hasn't  gone  particularly  wrong,  lately.  But  we 
never  seem  to  have  a  bob  in  hand ;  and  it  has  meant 
doing  without  every  sort  of  thing  that  one  used  to 
have  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  Oh,  come  now  !  Only  the  two  of  you !  You  ought 
not  to  have  to  go  without  much." 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I've  come  to  thinking  twice 
before  I  take  a  taxi,  and  I've  given  up  smoking  cigars. 
It  has  to  begin  somewhere ;  but  nothing  seems  to  make 
any  difference.  Susan's  housekeeping!  But  what  can 
I  do?  I  put  it  at  so  much;  I  asked  people  about  it, 
and  they  said  it  was  ample.  But  she  seems  to  want 
double  as  much  as  anybody  else  for  whatever  she  does. 
She  says  it  must  cost  more  because  we  chucked  dining 
at  restaurants,  except  occasionally.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  Money  simply  flows  away  in  London,  and  you  get 
nothing  for  it.  I  chucked  a  couple  of  clubs  at  the 
beginning  of  this  year.  Seems  to  me  I've  got  to  chuck 
everything  if  I'm  to  keep  straight.  And  that's  just 
what  I'm  going  to  do.  It's  been  easier  since  we  went 
up  to  Northamptonshire,  although  even  there  you'd 
think  we  inhabited  a  mansion  by  the  housekeeping  bills. 


Humphrey  and  Susan  131 

instead  of  a  little  clog's  hole  of  a  place  just  big  enough 
to  hold  us.  Still,  the  main  expense  there  is  outside, 
and  I've  got  that  in  hand." 

"  She  must  spend  a  tremendous  lot  on  clothes." 
"  Well,  to  do  her  justice,  she's  clever  at  that,  and  I 
haven't  had  any  trouble  with  her  beastly  dressmakers 
and  milliners  since  that  time  two  years  ago.  They  were 
the  devil  then,  of  course.  She  has  got  hold  of  some 
cheap  woman  who  turns  her  out  extraordinarily  well 
for  very  little.  I  wish  she'd  tackle  other  things  as  she 
does  that.  No,  I'm  not  going  to  put  all  the  blame  on 
Susan.  I  really  beHeve  she's  doing  her  best;  but  she 
doesn't  seem  to  have  it  in  her,  except  about  her  clothes. 
Anyhow,  she's  ready  to  do  anything,  and  it  shows 
that  she's  as  worried  about  what  has  gone  on,  in  her 
way,  as  I  am,  that  she's  so  keen  to  go  and  live  at 
Denny  Croft.  She's  going  to  garden,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it,  and  she  swears  she'll  keep  to  half  her  dress  allow- 
ance and  put  the  rest  into  doing  up  the  house." 

"  That's  the  way  to  go  about  it,"  said  Dick.  "  She 
certainly  does  seem  much  keener  on  it  than  I  should  have 
thought  she  would  have  been.  Virginia  says  so  too. 
Let's  hope  it  will  last." 

"  It's  going  to,"  said  Humphrey.     "  I'll  see  to  that." 
Dick   told   Virginia    something    of   the    conversation 
between  himself  and  Humphrey,  and  what  he  had  offered 
to  do  for  him. 

"  Oh,  Dick !  "  she  cried,  "  make  him  a  present  of  it. 
You  must  have  lots  laid  by.  We  haven't  been  spending 
nearly  up  to  our  income." 


132  The  Honour'  of  the  Clintons 

"  It's  what  I  meant,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  quick 
generosity.     "  But  I  don't  think  I  will — not  until  later." 

"  Oh,  why  not.?     I  can  spare  it,  if  you  can't." 

"  I  can  spare  it.  But  it  won't  do  him  any  harm  to 
save  a  bit.  When  he  offers  to  pay  me  back,  I  shall 
tell  him  he  can  keep  it.  Go  a  bust  with  it,  if  he  likes. 
He's  tackling  the  situation  well.  I'm  pleased  about  it. 
He  does  like  his  London  pleasures,  and  he's  quite  ready 
to  give  them  up." 

"  So  is  Susan,  isn't  she.?  She  seems  a  different 
creature.     As  if  a  load  were  lifted  off  her  mind." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  Susan.  My  idea  is  that 
Humphrey  will  have  to  keep  her  to  it.  It  will  give 
him  something  to  do.  The  trouble  with  him  is  that  he 
has  always  been  at  a  loose  end.  All  the  rest  of  us  have 
got  our  jobs.  It  will  be  his  job  to  keep  his  expendi- 
ture down,  and  look  after  Susan.  I've  always  thought 
she  was  a  rotter,  and  I  don't  trust  her  simply  because, 
as  Humphrey  says  himself,  she's  got  a  new  toy  to  play 
with." 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  means  it.  I  like  her  better  than  I 
did.  She  sees  her  faults.  Nobody  who  can  do  that 
is  worthless.     I'm  sure  she  is  not  worthless." 

Dick  pinched  her  chin  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. He  was  still  in  love  with  this  slim  sweet  candid 
creature,  whose  great  eyes  were  lustrous  with  the  flame 
of  her  eager  spirit.  "  Nobody  is  worthless  in  your 
eyes,"  he  said.  "  You  could  even  find  excuses  for  Rachel 
Amberley." 

A    shadow    fell    across    her    bright    face.     "  Poor 


Humphrey  and  Susan  133 

woman  !  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  poor,  poor  woman  !  Here  we 
are,  all  of  us  together,  happj-  at  Christmas-time;  and 

she !     Oh,  Dick — '  for  all  prisoners  and  captives  ' ! 

I  thought  of  her  in  church  this  morning.  The  loneli- 
ness— the  cold !  I  think  we  ought  to  pray  to  be  for- 
given, as  well  as  she." 

Dick  kissed  her  gently.  "  You  don't  want  to  think 
too  much  about  her,"  he  said.  "  She's  paying  the 
price." 


CHAPTER  IV 

COMING    HOME    FROM    THE    BALL 

"  This  is  where  we  are  going  to  shoot  to-morrow. 
We've  kept  this  side  entirely  until  now.  We  ought  to 
do  pretty  well." 

Bobby  Trench,  muffled  up  to  the  cigar  he  was  smok- 
ing, sat  by  the  side  of  Dick,  who  was  driving  the  big 
omnibus  back  from  the  West  Meadshire  Hunt  Ball.  The 
two  fine  horses,  making  nothing  of  the  load  behind 
them,  trotted  rhythmically  homewards.  Heavy  rain 
had  ceased,  and  the  moon  peeping  through  scudding 
clouds  shone  on  pools  of  water  lying  on  the  muddy  road. 
The  yellow  lamp-rays  tinged  the  wide  strips  of  turf 
bordering  the  roadway,  and  lit  up  successive  tree  trunks, 
posted  sentinel-like,  behind  the  oak  fences. 

Bobby  Trench  had  chosen  to  sit  outside,  with  Dick 
and  Frank.  His  evening  had  been  disappointing.  He 
had  arrived  at  Kencote  in  time  for  dinner,  prepared  to 
make  himself  pleasant  all  round,  which  he  seemed  to 
have  succeeded  in  doing  to  everybody  except  Joan,  who 
had  held  somewhat  coldly  aloof,  although  he  had  kept 
strictly  to  his  predetermined  plan  of  treating  her  with 
cool  friendliness  until  the  ball  should  give  him  oppor- 
tunities of  carefully  graded  tenderness.  But  the  ball 
had  given  him  no  opportunities,  or  none  that  Joan 
would  allow  him  to  take  advantage  of.     She  had  snubbed 

134 


Comijig  Home  from  the  Ball  135 

him,  had  sliown  herself,  indeed,  determined  to  find 
occasions  for  snubbing  him ;  for  he  was  agile  in  skip- 
ping out  of  the  way  of  such  occasions,  but  she  had 
pursued  his  skippings  and  dealt  her  strokes  in  spite  of 
them.  She  had  primly  refused  him  more  than  two 
dances,  and  had  refused  to  go  in  to  supper  with  him. 
His  anticipated  pleasure  having  thus  resolved  itself 
into  puzzled  pain,  Bobby  Trench  had  declared  himself 
for  tobacco  and  the  night  air,  and  left  Joan  to  her 
reflections  inside,  barbing  them,  as  he  handed  her  in, 
with  a  careless  example  of  his  own  peculiar  humour, 
which  was  founded  on  the  basis  of  a  cheery  and  always 
ready  loquacity. 

Snubs,  or  attempted  snubs,  received  with  no  diminu- 
tion of  self-assurance  or  good-temper,  at  both  of  which 
the}^  may  be  supposed  to  be  aimed,  are  apt  to  recoil 
on  those  who  administer  them ;  and  Joan,  taking  refuge 
between  the  comforting  skirts  of  Virginia  and  Miss 
Dexter,  was  already  reproaching  herself  for  her  treat- 
ment of  one  who  had  given  her  no  cause  for  it  except 
his  presence,  and  whose  persistent  cheerfulness  under 
persecution  was  a  shining  lesson  to  ill-temper.  She  was 
feeling  miserable  enough,  in  all  conscience,  and  need 
not  have  beaten  down  the  last  sparks  of  enjoyment  that 
she  might  have  gained  from  the  bright  movement, 
hitherto  eagerly  anticipated,  by  setting  herself  to  a 
task  so  little  productive  of  satisfaction. 

But  she  did  not  occupy  her  thoughts  for  long  with 
Bobby  Trench.  She  made  up  her  mind  that,  having 
shown  him  that  particular  attention  from  him  would 


136  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

not  be  welcome,  she  might  safely  return  to  the  chaffing 
intimacy  which  had  hitherto  been  the  note  of  their  inter- 
course, and  had  been  quite  as  efficacious  in  keeping  him 
at  the  requisite  distance  as  her  recent  manner.  And 
having  so  decided  she  dismissed  him  from  her  mind  and 
wrapped  herself  round  with  her  unhappiness. 

It  was  dreadful  to  be  going  home  from  a  ball,  not 
only  with  no  retrospective  pleasure,  but  with  nothing 
to  look  forward  to  in  the  way  of  disrobing  talk.  She 
and  Nancy,  since  her  wrecked  attempt  at  reconciliation, 
had  carried  their  respective  heads  in  the  air,  and  had 
hardly  spoken  to  one  another,  except  in  the  presence 
of  their  handmaid,  for  the  purpose  of  averting  com- 
ment. And  yet  she  knew  that  Nancy's  happy  fate  was 
marching  upon  her,  and  reproached  herself  a  thousand 
times  for  her  inability  to  cross  the  gulf  between  them, 
and  share  her  sister's  doubts  and  sweet  tremors.  John 
Spence  had  danced  with  her  three  times — many  times 
with  Nancy — and  his  manner  had  been  brotherly-kind 
and  protecting,  as  if  to  soothe  her  soreness,  which  yet 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  divined.  His  thoughts  had  not 
been  much  with  her,  that  had  been  plain — but  his  quiet- 
ness and  simplicity  had  comforted  her  a  little,  and  she 
had  not  wanted  to  talk.  She  had  taken  refuge  in  a 
plea  of  headache,  and  held  to  it  on  the  homeward  drive. 

Nobody  seemed  to  want  to  talk.  Something  had 
gone  wrong  with  the  lamp  inside  the  carriage,  and 
they  were  in  darkness,  except  for  the  faint  irradiation 
of  the  moon.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  driven  home  earlier, 
with  Sir  George  and  Lady  Senhouse  and  Muriel  Clinton, 


Coming  Home  from  the  Ball         137 

Walter's  wife.  In  the  absence  of  Bouby  Trench,  the 
eight  of  them  inside  the  omnibus  were  of  such  family 
intimacy  tliat  there  was  no  necessity  for  conversation, 
if  private  thoughts  sufficed,  or  snatches  of  slumber. 
John  Spence,  the  one  exception,  had  no  great  initiative 
in  conversation  at  any  time,  and  in  the  far  corner 
beside  Nancy  much  preferred  the  silent,  ruminative  pro- 
gression through  the  dark  country  roads  and  lanes. 
Greatly  daring,  he  advanced  his  large  muscular  hand 
under  the  warm  fur  billowing  down  the  carriage,  and 
sought  for  Nancy's.  He  found  it  and  gave  it  a  squeeze. 
She  returned  the  squeeze  and  withdrew  her  hand.  A 
year  before,  such  a  sign  of  appreciative  affection  might 
very  well  have  come  from  her — or  from  Joan — instead 
of  from  him.  Perhaps  her  ready  acceptance  of  it 
might  mean  no  more  than  that  her  affectionate  apprecia- 
tion was  still  of  the  same  quality.  But  the  chance 
of  its  meaning  something  more  thrilled  his  big  frame, 
and  on  it  his  thoughts  fed  sweetly  in  the  dark  silence. 

Virginia  was  right.  He  was  head  over  ears  in  love 
with  Nancy,  but  he  shrank  from  telling  her  so.  He 
was  years  older  than  she,  almost  as  old  as  Dick,  almost 
an  old  bachelor,  except  that  at  heart  he  had  kept  his 
simple  youthfulness ;  and  his  great  body,  hardened  and 
kept  fine  by  field-sports,  was  still  as  responsive  to  his 
mind  as  that  of  a  youth  i^i  his  glorious  twenties.  But 
modesty  was  a  great  part  of  him,  and  he  could  not 
envisage  himself  as  a  man  likely  to  gain  prizes  usually 
reserved  for  gallant  youth.  The  fresh,  laughing  friend- 
liness of  the  twins,  when  he  had  first  known  them  as  girls 


138  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

of  fifteen,  had  attracted  him  dchghtfully,  and  he  had 
been  surprised  to  find  that  the  attraction  had  changed 
its  quaHty ;  also,  at  first,  a  little  incredulous.  It  was 
only  when  he  discovered  that  he  thrilled  to  Nancy's 
touch  and  voice,  and  not  to  Joan's,  that  he  accepted 
his  fate;  and,  ever  since,  he  had  been  tormented  with 
doubts  as  to  whether  an  avowal  of  his  new  feeling  would 
bring  him  a  response,  or  only  destroy  the  frank  con- 
fidence with  which  he  still  loved  to  be  treated.  The 
poor  man  sometimes  imagined  Nancy  regarding  him 
in  the  light  of  a  fun-producing  uncle,  and  felt  that 
it  would  be  sacrilege  to  her  innocence  to  reveal  himself 
as  a  lover.  If  he  risked  all,  he  might  lose  all,  and  be 
for  ever  disgraced  in  her  eyes.  He  trembled,  in  his 
more  darksome  moods,  at  the  thought.  But  love  was 
urging  him  on.  The  time  would  soon  come  when  the 
avuncular  character  would  be  more  difficult  to  support 
than  that  of  a  rejected  absentee. 

Dick  pulled  up  his  horses  at  a  gate  opening  on  to 
a  broad  grass  ride  between  the  trees.  A  groom  got 
down  from  behind  and  opened  it. 

"  We  cut  off  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half  here,"  Dick 
said.  "  But  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  rather  soft  going 
after  this  rain.  We'll  chance  it.  There's  only  one 
place  where  we  might  get  stuck." 

The  horses  broke  gently  into  a  slow  trot,  their  hoofs 
and  the  iron-shod  wheels  of  the  heavy  carriage  making 
no  sound  on  the  thick  grass.  They  went  down  a  long 
and  very  easy  slope,  and  then  Dick  pulled  them  to  a 
walk  through  soft  ground  in  the   cup   of  the  almost 


Coining  Home  from  the  Ball  139 

indistinguishable  hollow.  With  a  tightening  of  traces 
and  no  more  than  the  stroke  of  a  wliip-lash  they  pulled 
the  omnibus  through,  leaving  shai-p  ruts  behind  it,  and 
were  once  more  on  springy  turf.  Just  as  they  were 
about  to  quicken  into  a  trot  again,  Bobby  Trench 
seized  Dick's  arm.  "  What's  that !  "  he  cried.  "  Did 
you  hear  it.^  " 

"  Somebody  shouted,"  said  Frank,  standing  up  be- 
hind them ;  and  had  no  sooner  spoken  when  the  silence 
of  the  woods  was  sharply  broken  by  a  gun-shot. 

"  Poachers,  by  Jove !  "  said  Dick.  "  We  shall  catch 
them."  He  drove  quickly  on  towards  the  point  from 
which  the  report  had  come. 

Suddenly  there  were  shouts  of  men,  and  another 
report  from  a  gun ;  then  more  shouting,  and  the  crack- 
ing of  trampled  twigs  quite  near  to  them. 

"  The  keepers  are  out.  Good  boys  !  "  cried  Dick,  in 
excitement,  reining  in  his  horses. 

Frank  and  Bobby  Trench  were  down  and  off  into 
the  covert.  Humphre}^,  who  had  been  sitting  next  to 
the  door,  had  followed  them.  Dick  was  for  doing  the 
same,  but  paused  irresolute  when  he  had  called  a  groom 
to  take  the  reins,  and  swung  himself  down  from  his  seat. 
There  was  a  commotion  inside  the  omnibus.  The  women 
must  be  thought  of. 

Walter  stood  at  the  door,  calming  them.  John 
Spence  was  on  his  feet  ready  to  push  out,  but  Nancy 
had  hold  of  his  hand,  and  Susan  Clinton  was  clinging 
to  him  terrified.  "  All  right,  I'll  stay,  but  I  must  get 
out,"  he  said,  torn  between  his  desire  to  be  in  the  fray, 


140  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

and  the  appeal,  not  of  Susan's  frightened  cries,  but  of 
Nancy's  silent  call  for  protection. 

"  If  you  two  will  stay  here,  I'll  go  and  see  what's 
happening,"  said  Dick.  "  It's  all  right,  Virginia ;  there 
can't  be  many  of  them,  and  the  nfen  are  there." 

Another  shot  rang  out  above  the  sounds,  hard  by, 
of  an  angry  struggle,  and  was  followed  by  a  cry  of 
pain.     Dick  began  to  run  towards  the  sound. 

The  moon  now  shining  brightly  made  his  progress 
easy.  He  saw  three  or  four  men,  locked  in  a  fierce 
struggle,  and  thought  he  recognised  Frank  as  one 
of  them.  Then  a  cry  to  his  right  brought  him  round 
to  see  another  group  in  combat.  Someone  was  lying 
prone  on  the  grass.  A  few  yards  from  the  still  figure 
two  others  were  reeling  to  and  fro,  and  as  he  approached 
went  down.  The  one  underneath  was  wrapped  in  a 
long  coat,  the  uppermost  was  unhampered,  a  giant  figure 
of  a  man  as  he  seemed,  with  a  gun  in  his  hands,  on 
the  barrels  of  which  a  shaft  of  moonlight  glinted.  He 
looked  to  be  striking  at  the  head  of  the  other  figure, 
and  a  cry  for  help  rose  up,  urgently. 

Dick  sprang  forward,  but  caught  his  foot  on  a 
root  and  fell.  As  he  picked  himself  up,  another  figure 
ran  past  him  with  a  raised  cudgel. 

"  All  right,  sir,  coming !  " 

The  thick  stick  went  down  resoundingly  on  the 
ruffian's  head,  who  let  go  of  the  gun-barrels,  and  turned 
with  his  arm  raised  to  guard  himself. 

Dick  had  him  by  the  neck,  and  was  screwing  his 
knuckles  into  the  throat.     He  gulped,  put  hands  like 


Coming  Home  from  the  Ball         141 

vices  on  to  his  sleeves,  and  kicked  with  a  great  iron- 
shod  boot.  Dick  felt  his  shin  peel  through  his  tliin 
trousers,  but  no  pain.  In  a  moment  the  keeper  had 
thrown  himself  on  to  him,  he  ceased  to  struggle,  and, 
Dick's  fists  relaxing  their  hold,  choked  out  submission. 
"  All  right,  ycu  got  me.     You  can  give  over  now." 

Humphrey  rose  from  the  ground,  white  and  shaking, 
the  blood  trickling  from  a  wound  over  his  eyebrow. 
"  The  brute !  "  he  said.  "  He'd  have  killed  me.  Lucky 
you  came  along.     Where's  Bobby?  " 

Bobby  Trench  lay  on  the  dark  ground,  motionless, 
his  arm  stretched  at  a  peculiar  angle.  As  they  bent 
over  him,  he  fluttered  an  eyelid,  then  opened  both. 
"  Winged  me,"  he  said  in  a  faint  voice.  "  Ugh ! " 
Then  fainted  again. 

"  He  shot  at  him,"  said  Humphre3\  "  I  was  just 
behind.  He  got  it  in  the  shoulder.  Look  here;  all 
torn;  he'll  bleed  to  death." 

Dick  set  up  a  shout.  The  wood  was  still  now  of  the 
louder  clamour.     The  mimic  battle  was  over. 

Gotch,  the  keeper,  had  secured  their  captive  with  a 
rope.  He  took  it  calmly,  even  good-humouredly. 
"  'Aven't  done  for  'im,  'ave  I,  Governor?  "  he  called  out 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  swine ! "  said  Gotch,  hitting 
him  on  the  nwuth,  at  which  he  expostulated  mildly,  as 
at  an  unreasonable  act.  "  All  right,  mate ;  you  got 
me.  It's  a  lifer  if  I  done  for  him.  I  on'y  wanted  to 
know." 


CHAPTER   V 


ROBEET  RECUMBENT 


Bobby  Trench,  lying  in  bed,  the  seams  of  his  pyjama 
jacket  cut  and  ribboned  at  the  left  arm  and  shoulder 
to  accommodate  the  bandages,  was  an  interesting  figure. 
He  had  gone  through  his  time  of  fever  and  fiery  pain, 
his  probings  and  dressings ;  now,  but  for  occasional 
discomfort,  and  a  languorous  but  convalescent  weak- 
ness, he  was  himself  again,  and  prepared  to  take  up 
his  affairs  at  the  point  at  which  they  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  what  had  befallen  him. 

The  nurse,  moving  capably  about  the  large,  airy, 
chintz-bedecked  room,  in  her  trim  livery,  was  besieged 
for  news  of  the  household.  Tall,  handsome,  and  still 
young,  she  was  on  very  good  terms  with  her  patient. 
Regarded  as  a  "  case,"  he  did  her  credit ;  and  she 
couldn't  help  liking  him,  as  she  wrote  to  her  rela- 
tions. 

"  Look  here,  Sarah  Gamp,  you're  a  deceitful  woman. 
You're  keeping  them  all  away  from  me ;  you  know  you 
are.  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  or  shall  be  in  about  five 
minutes ;  and  I  want  to  see  company." 

The  nurse  permitted  herself  a  smile.  "  You're  to 
be  kept  quiet  for  a  day  or  two.     Doctor's  orders." 

"Doctor's  orders!  Walter  Clinton!  What  sort  of 
a  Bob  Sawyer  is  he,  to  give  orders?     You  know  much 

143 


Robert  Recumbent  143 

more  about  things  than  he  dogs,  don't  you  now?     You 
want  to  keep  me  to  yourself,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  Indeed,  you're  very  ungrateful.  Dr.  Clinton  is  a 
rising  man  in  the  profession.  There  isn't  a  doctor  in 
London  could  have  done  better  for  you." 

"  You  think  so,  Mrs.  Gamp.?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  It  was  lucky  for  you  that  he  was  there 
when  you  were  shot." 

"  Yes,  that  was  a  piece  of  luck,  wasn't  it?  He  had 
a  busy  night  of  it.  I  say,  who  has  been  asking  for 
me?" 

"  Oh,  everybody,  of  course.  You  will  have  plenty  of 
visitors  when  you  are  well  enough  to  receive  them." 

**  I'm  well  enough  now.  You're  trying  to  keep  me 
to  yourself,  Sarah.  There's  a  sort  of  fatal  fascination 
about  me  that  no  good-looking  woman  can  resist?  I 
say,  do  the  doctors  make  love  to  you  in  the  hospital?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  getting  light-headed.  You  have 
talked  quite  enough  for  the  present.  Would  you  like 
some  jelly?  " 

"  I  should  like  some  strawberries  and  cream  and  a 
pint  of  champagne.  Look  here,  tell  me  about  the 
doctors.  Are  there  any  good-looking  fellows  amongst 
them?" 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the 
arrival  of  Walter  Clinton,  whose  knickerbockered  home- 
spuns only  served  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  cool 
professional  manner. 

"  Well,  nurse,  how's  your  patient?  " 

"  Going  on  well,  doctor ;  but  you  must  please  tell 


144  The  Honoiir  of  the  Clintons 

him  that  lie  must  keep  quiet  for  the  present.  He  wants 
to  see  everybodj^  in  the  house." 

Walter  took  his  seat  by  the  bed  and  felt  his  patient's 
pulse.  "  You  can  see  people  to-morrow,"  he  said,  as 
he  pocketed  his  watch.  "  You're  doing  all  right. 
Better  have  one  more  day  to  yourself,  though.  You've 
had  a  narrow  squeak." 

"  I  know.  Mrs.  Gamp  says  that  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,  I  should  have  snuffed  out.  She  revels  in  gore. 
I  don't  think  she's  the  woman  for  her  job." 

"  Don't  you  believe  what  he  says,  doctor.  He's  full 
of  his  nonsense." 

"How's  Humphrey?"  asked  Bobby. 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right.  He  got  off  with  a  scalp  wound. 
Poor  old  Dick  had  his  shin  laid  bare.  I've  got  him  on 
my  hands.  But  we're  well  out  of  it.  That  was  a  brute 
of  a  fellow.  And  there  were  two  others ;  tough  cus- 
tomers, all  of  them.  If  we  hadn't  come  along  they 
might  have  got  the  better  of  our  fellows.  They've 
quodded  them.  The  Governor  went  over  to  Petty 
Sessions  to-day.  By  the  by,  he'd  like  to  see  you  when 
you're  ready." 

"  I'm  ready  now.     Ask  him  to  step  up." 

"  To-morrow — if  you  get  a  good  night." 

"What  are  they  all  doing  downstairs  .^^  " 

"  Slacking,  and  playing  with  my  kiddies.  They  all 
sent  messages  to  you." 

"  They  must  have  got  a  pretty  good  shock.  You 
turned  them  out  of  the  bus,  didn't  you?  I  don't  re- 
member much  of  what  happened." 


Robert  Recumbent  145 

"  Yes,  but  I'd  sent  one  of  the  grooms  on  to  get 
some  more  carriages.  They  didn't  have  to  wait  long. 
They're  all  right.  Joan  got  a  bit  of  a  chill,  and  is 
seedy." 

"  I  suppose  she  was — upset  about  it  all?  Pretty 
funking  to  see  a  fellow  brought  along  in  the  state  I 
was  in !  " 

"  Oh,  they  all  took  it  very  well.  Susan  was  the 
worst,  but  of  course  Humphrey  looked  worse  than  he 
really  was — luckily." 

Bobby  Trench,  an  incurable  optimist,  allowed  him- 
self the  solace  of  imagining  that  Joan's  indisposition 
had  been  brought  on  by  her  agitation  on  his  account, 
which  it  well  might  have  been  without  undue  partiality 
on  her  part.  For  after  waiting  for  minutes  that  had 
seemed  like  hours,  while  the  fight  was  going  on  in  the 
wood,  and  being  forsaken  by  Walter,  who  had  left  them 
in  answer  to  Dick's  shouts  for  help,  they  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  omnibus,  so  that  the  bleeding,  sense- 
less figure  of  Bobby  Trench  might  be  laid  there  for 
Walter  to  examine  and  bind  up.  Humphrey  had  also 
needed  attention,  and  Susan  had  been  frightened  almost 
into  hysterics  by  his  appearance.  They  had  walked 
for  half  a  mile  in  satin  shoes,  mostly  over  grass  wring- 
ing wet,  until  the  carriages  from  Kencote  had  picked 
them  up ;  and  after  the  fatigue  of  the  ball  and  in  her 
state  of  low  spirits,  it  was  small  wonder  that  Joan 
should  have  succumbed  to  her  experiences. 

But  her  indisposition  had  caused  some  lessening  of 
the  tension  between  herself  and  Nancy,  who,  possibly 


14G  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

supported  by  the  tender  attentions  of  John  Spence,  had 
escaped  all  ill  effect  from  the  excitements  of  the  night. 
Their  differences  were  ignored.  There  had  been  no  real 
reconciliation,  but  the  events  in  which  they  had  par- 
ticipated had  formed  a  skin  over  the  wounds  that  each 
had  dealt  the  other,  and  they  could  behave  with  some 
approach  to  former  freedom. 

Bobby  Trench's  first  unofficial  visitor  was  the  Squire, 
as  was  only  fitting.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  been  with  him 
constantly  until  the  arrival  of  the  nurse,  but  he  had 
then  been  delirious,  and  had  not  known  her,  and  she 
had  not  entered  his  room  since. 

The  Squire  came  in,  bringing  with  him  a  breath  of 
the  now  frosty  outer  air,  but  treading  Agag-like  on 
complimentary  slippers. 

"  Well,  sir,"  was  his  hearty  greeting,  tuned  to  suitable 
lowness  of  pitch,  "  this  is  a  pretty  business  to  have 
brought  you  into  !  Lucky  it  wasn't  worse,  eh  ?  I  told 
them  on  the  Bench  to-day  that  you  were  the  first  in 
the  field.  There  were  many  enquiries  after  you;  and 
we've  got  those  blackguards  safely  by  the  leg.  You've 
got  everything  you  want,  I  hope.  Nurse  looking  after 
you  well?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  her,  but  she's  a 
bully,  Mr.  Clinton.  If  you  get  ill  you  send  for  some- 
body else." 

The  Squire,  after  a  glance  at  the  nurse's  demurely 
smiling  face,  checked  a  laugh  at  the  witticism.  "  Keep 
up  your  spirits,"  he  said.  "  That's  capital.  You'll 
soon  be  out  of  the  wood  if  you  take  it  cheerfully.     We 


Robert  liecumbent  147 

shall  make  a  lot  of  you  when  you  come  downstairs.    You 
did  well ;  and  I've  written  to  tell  your  father  so." 

Bobby  Trench  felt  that  a  few  torn  muscles  and  splin- 
tered bones  were  a  small  price  to  pay  for  this  approving 
geniality.  On  his  arrival,  the  Squire  seemed  to  have 
swung  back  from  the  acquiescent  mood  in  which  he  had 
caused  his  former  aversion  to  be  invited  to  Kencote,  and 
had  greeted  him  with  a  manner  not  much  more  concilia- 
tory than  he  had  previously  shown  him.  Bobby  Trench, 
on  reflection,  had  attributed  his  invitation  to  Hum- 
phrey's having  imparted  as  much  of  his  confidence  as 
would  secure  it;  and,  in  view  of  his  acknowledged 
eligibility,  had  expected  a  rather  warmer  welcome  than 
he  had  received,  either  from  his  host  or  hostess.  It 
had  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  have  other  obstacles 
to  surmount,  in  order  to  win  Joan,  than  those  which 
she  might  be  inclined  to  put  between  herself  and  him 
of  her  own  accord.  It  was  therefore  gratifying  to 
find  the  face  of  his  host  thus  turned  towards  him,  and 
would  have  been  worth  a  substantial  reduction  in  the 
sentence  to  be  presently  passed  upon  his  assailant,  if 
he  had  had  the  computing  of  his  punishment. 

"  I  must  write  a  line  to  my  father,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
glad  you've  written  to  him.  He  doesn't  suggest  coming 
here,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  he  does.  We  shall  be  pleased  to  see 
him — and  her  ladyship  too,  if  she  cares  about 
it." 

"Oh,  save  us  from  her  ladyship!"  said  Bobby, 
unfilially.     "  She'd  be  hopeless  in  a  sick-room ;  and  this 


148  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

is   a  real  keep-jour-distance,   Sundays-only   sick-room, 
ain't  it,  Sarah  Gamp  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Trench  must  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible," 
said  the  nurse ;  and  the  Squire,  with  an  unintentionally 
obvious  lift  of  spirits,  said  that  he  did  not  gather  that 
Lady  Sedbergh  was  anything  but  content  to  leave  her 
son  in  present  hands.  "  I've  said  we  are  looking  after 
you  as  well  as  we  can,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have  plenty 
of  company  when  you're  vvell  enough  to  receive  it. 
Humphrey  wants  to  have  a  look  at  you  later  on.  If 
you  hadn't  been  so  sharp  at  the  start,  I  expect  he  would 
have  come  in  for  what  you  got.  He'd  have  been  pretty 
well  knocked  out  as  it  was,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
young  fellow,  Gotch,  and  Dick.  It's  the  first  time  any- 
thing of  this  sort  has  happened  at  Kencote  since  my 
grandfather's  time.  I  don't  say  we  haven't  had  to 
teach  our  local  sportsmen  a  lesson  or  two  occasionally, 
but  these  were  regular  professional  ruffians  from  a  dis- 
tance— Ganton  they  come  from — and  that  class  of 
gentry  sticks  at  nothing  when  he's  interfered  with. 
You  see  we've  done  very  well  with  our  young  birds  this 
year,  and  they  must  have  got  wind  of  the  fact  that 
we'd  kept  those  coverts.  That's  why  they  turned  their 
kind  attentions  on  to  us.  They've  been  all  round  about, 
but  mostly  on  more  fully  stocked  places  than  mine 
generall}'  is,  and  they've  never  been  nabbed.  Fortu- 
nately my  keeper  had  an  idea  that  they  might  pay  us  a 
visit,  and  had  all  his  watchers  out  there.  Otherwise 
you  might  have  come  upon  them  driving  home,  and  then 
I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened.     It's  provi- 


Robert  Recumbent  149 

dcntial  all  round — the  keepers  being  there,  and  you 
coming  just  in  the  nick  of  time  to  reinforce  tliem. 
We're  rid  of  a  dangerous  pest ;  and  no  particular  harm 
is  done — except  to  you,  I'm  afraid.  I  don't  want  to 
make  light  of  that." 

But  if  the  Squire  did  not,  Bobby  Trench  was  not 
unwilling  to  do  so,  now  that  the  worst  was  over.  He 
saw  himself  an  interesting,  not  to  say  petted,  figure, 
with  a  perhaps  undeserved  but  none  the  less  convenient 
aura  of  heroism,  and  hoped  accordingly. 

"  You  must  have  got  a  bit  of  a  shock  when  you  first 
heard  of  it,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  that  was  when  the 
ladies  came  in." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  them,"  said  the  Squire  on  a  note 
of  detailed  reminiscence.  "  They  had  knocked  me  up 
and  told  me  that  the  groom  had  come  in  for  carriages, 
and  I  had  had  him  in  and  learnt  what  he  could  tell 
me.  I  should  have  gone  myself,  but  thought  it  better 
to  stay  and  direct  any  preparations  that  had  to  be 
made.  I  didn't  know  but  what  there  might  have  been 
serious  accidents,  and  it  turned  out  I  was  right.  My 
wife  had  the  idea  too ;  but  women  are  apt  to  lose  their 
heads  in  these  emergencies,  so  I  stayed  to  see  that 
everything  was  got  ready.  I  went  down  into  the  cellar 
myself  for  a  bottle  of  my  oldest  brand3^  You  want 
to  keep  a  cool  head  on  these  occasions." 

"  The  ladies  were  pretty  much  upset,  eh.^  " 

"  Oh,  I  soon  stopped  their  fuss.  '  Look  here,  yoiCre 
not  hurt,'  I  said.  '  You'd  better  all  swallow  something 
hot,   and   then   tuck  j^ourselves    up   in   your  blankets,' 


150  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I  packed  them  all  off,  except  Virginia  and  Miss  Dexter — 
oh,  and  Susan,  who  wouldn't  go  till  she'd  seen  Hum- 
phrey safe ;  and  Nancy  was  helping  her  mother ;  she's 
turning  into  a  useful  girl,  that — didn't  turn  a  hair." 

"  Then  Miss  Joan  was  the  only  one  who  went  up?  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  upset — hasn't  quite  the  head  that 
Nancy  has.  She's  in  bed  now,  but  there's  nothing 
really  the  matter  with  her.  We're  over  it  all  very  well, 
and  ought  to  be  thankful  for  it.  Depend  upon  it, 
there's  a  Providence  that  looks  after  these  things ;  and 
I  say  we're  not  doing  our  duty  unless  we  recognise  it, 
and  show  that  we  have  some  sense  of  gratitude.  Sure 
you've  got  everything  you  want  here.'^  " 

He  looked  round  the  large  comfortable  room  with  an 
air  of  complacent  proprietorship.  He  kept  habitually 
to  half-a-dozen  rooms  of  the  big  house,  and  had  no  such 
feeling  for  it  and  its  hoarded  contents  as  would  impel 
some  men  and  most  women  to  occasional  tours  of  inspec- 
tion and  appraisal.  But  it  was  all  his,  and  it  was  all 
as  it  should  be.  He  had  not  put  foot  inside  this  room 
perhaps  for  years,  and  took  it  in  with  a  pleased  feeling 
of  proprietorship  and  recognition. 

"  Oh,  every  mortal  thing,  thanks,"  said  Bobby.  "  It's 
a  jolly  room,  this;  cheery  and  peaceful  at  the  same 
time.  Just  the  room  to  be  laid  up  in,  if  j^ou've  got  to 
be  laid  up." 

"  My  grandfather  died  in  this  room,"  said  the  Squire, 
by  way  of  adding  to  its  impression  of  cheerfulness. 
"  Had  it  before  Ms  father  died  and  never  would  shift 
downstairs.     It  was  done  up  later,  but  I  see  there  are 


Robert  Recumbent  151 

one  or  two  of  his  pictures  still  on  the  walls.  This  was 
his  wardrobe,  too.  A  good  piece  of  mahogany ;  they 
don't  make  furniture  so  solid  now-a-days." 

He  had  got  up  to  examine  one  or  two  of  the  old 
sporting  prints  on  the  walls,  which  he  did  with  informa- 
tive comment.  "  Most  of  the  furniture  is  the  same," 
he  said,  now  looking  round  him  from  the  vantage  point 
of  the  hearthrug,  where  he  seemed  more  spaciously  at 
his  ease  than  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  "Yes, 
they  only  papered  it,  and  put  a  new  carpet  and  curtains. 
He  wouldn't  have  curtains  at  all;  liked  to  see  the  sun 
rise,  and  wasn't  much  behind  it  himself  as  a  rule.  He 
was  a  fine  old  fellow.     Have  you  read  his  diaries?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Bobby,  stretching  the  truth  not 
unduly,  for  the  two  volumes  of  Colonel  Clinton  of  Ken- 
cote's  record  of  his  lifelong  pursuit  of  fur  and  feathers 
were  in  every  adequately  furnished  country  house 
library,  and  had  been  at  least  dipped  into  by  countless 
sportsmen.  "  Jolly  interesting !  We  don't  take  things 
so  seriously  now-a-days.  Good  thing  if  we  did.  A 
book  like  that  shows  you  that  half  the  things  we  do 
aren't  nearly  as  amusing  as  sticking  at  home  in  the 
country  and  looking  about  you." 

The  Squire  warmed  to  him.  "  That's  a  very  sensible 
thing  to  say.  The  nonsense  people  talk  about  the 
country  being  dull !  Dull !  It's  the  people  that  say  it 
who  are  dull.  They've  got  no  resources  in  themselves. 
Now  my  grandfather — you  can  see  what  he  knew  about 
nature  by  his  diaries.  But  that  wasn't  his  only  interest 
by  any  means.     He  had  an  electrical  apparatus,  when 


152  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

they  weren't  nearly  as  common  as  they  are  now.  He 
read  books — stiff  books,  some  of  them.  He  was  a  man 
of  brains  as  well  as  muscle,  and  in  the  life  he  chose 
to  lead  he  had  time  and  opportunity  for  exercising  his 
brains.  Oh,  I  say  that  the  country  life  is  the  best  life, 
undoubtedly.  And  I  go  further,  and  say  that  those 
who  have  a  stake  in  the  country — own  land,  and  so 
forth — are  doing  a  criminal  thing  if  they  don't  spend 
a  good  part  of  their  lives  on  their  properties,  in- 
stead of  spending  the  money  they  get  from  them  else- 
where." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Bobby  Trench,  anxious 
to  fix  the  good  impression  he  had  made,  and  also  to 
put  a  point  to  these  observations.  "  Have  your  fling 
for  a  year  or  two  when  you're  young,  and  then  marry 
and  settle  down.  You  don't  want  to  tie  yourself  by 
the  leg,  especially  if  you  have  a  certain  place  in  the 
world — House  of  Lords — Committees — all  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  make  your  home  in  the  country,  I  say. 
Bring  up  your  children  in  pure  air — fresh  milk,  and 
all  that.  You  know,  Mr.  Clinton,  a  house  like  Kencote 
makes  you  think  how  jolly  a  simple  country  life  may 
be  made  for  everybody  concerned.  Early  to  bed,  early 
to  rise,  church  on  Sundays,  good  food  and  drink,  some- 
thing to  shoot,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  your 
family  and  relations  coming  dowm  to  liven  you  up — oh, 
it's  life,  that's  what  it  is.  All  the  rest  is  footle,  com- 
pared with  it." 

A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!  Saul  among  the 
prophets !     Never  had  the  shining  example  of  Kencote, 


Robert  Recumbent  153 

where  wealth  and  ancestry  adorned  but  did  not  over- 
power a  God-fearing  simplicity  of  life,  received  a  more 
effective  testimonial.  Forgotten  were  Bobby  Trench's 
offences  against  its  ordered  ways,  withdrawn  the  Squire's 
strictures  on  his  manners  and  character.  He  had  found 
salvation.  Kencote — and  its  owner — had  triumphed 
exceedingly. 

But  Bobby  Trench's  speech,  while  offering  most 
acceptable  incense,  had  brought  to  mind  the  object  with 
which  he  had  installed  himself  at  Kencote.  This  the 
Squire  had,  for  the  time,  completely  forgotten,  and  was 
not  yet  ready  to  exercise  his  mind  upon  it.  So  with  a 
"  Well,  I  mustn't  make  you  talk  too  much,"  he  took 
his  leave,  promising  to  come  again  shortly,  and  in  the 
meantime  to  send  other  visitors. 

These  did  not,  on  the  first  day  of  Bobby  Trench's 
convalescence,  include  any  of  the  ladies  of  the  house; 
but,  on  the  day  after,  Mrs.  Clinton,  urged  by  the  Squire, 
paid  him  a  visit. 

Bobby  Trench  could  make  no  headway  with  her.  She 
was  solicitous  as  to  his  welfare,  ready  to  talk  in  an 
unembarrassed  and  even  friendly  fashion ;  but  kept  him, 
beneath  her  ostensible  approach,  so  at  arm's  length 
that  when  she  left  him  he  had  not  found  it  possible  to 
ask,  as  he  had  meant  to  do,  that  Joan  or  Nancy — he  was 
prepared  to  blunt  the  point  of  his  request  by  including 
Nancy- — might  pay  him  a  visit.  And  what  Bobby 
Trench  did  not  find  it  possible  to  ask  of  anybody  was 
not  likely  to  come  about  of  itself.  For  further  female 
society  he  had  to  be  content  with  that  of  Susan  Clinton, 


154  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

who,  on  already  intimate  terms  with  him,  promised  to 
do  what  she  could  to  make  things  "  easy  all  round." 

This  she  essayed  to  do  by  hymning  his  courage  at 
the  call  of  danger,  patience  in  affliction,  and  amiability 
under  all  weathers;  but  found  none  to  take  up  her 
praises,  except  Humphrey,  to  a  politic  degree  of  in- 
difference, and  the  Squire,  who  admitted  that  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  that  young  fellow,  and  had  found  him 
with  a  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  a  very  proper  idea  as 
to  what  he  should  do  with  his  place  in  the  world  when 
he  should  succeed  to  it. 

This  positive  praise,  after  a  long  course  of  un- 
measured abuse,  only  seemed  to  Joan,  listening  to  it 
dispiritedly,  a  flick  of  the  lash  to  start  her  on  the 
road  along  which  she  conceived  her  father  wishing 
to  drive  her,  and  caused  her,  if  the  ungallant  simile 
may  be  carried  out,  to  set  her  feet  the  more  obstinately 
against  it.  It  had  much  the  same  effect  upon  Mrs. 
Clinton,  who  foresaw  herself  plied  with  an  enlargement 
on  this  theme,  and  forced  either  to  obey,  or  else  openly 
resist,  directions  founded  upon  it.  Susan's  intervention 
had  only  affected  the  already  converted,  except  to  in- 
subordination, and  would  have  been  better  omitted. 

But  what  lover  can  eschew  the  use  of  weapons  so 
ready  to  hand  as  the  good  nature  of  uninterested  par- 
ties, or  gauge  their  dangerous  futility?  Only  in  the 
case  of  the  adored  object  being  predisposed  to  adore 
is  intentionally  distilled  praise  treated  without  suspicion, 
and  likely  to  achieve  its  object;  which  in  that  case  is 
already  achieved. 


CHAPTER    VI 


JOAN    REBELLIOUS 


Joan,  more  or  less  recovered  from  her  indisposition, 
still  looked  upon  the  world  as  a  place  from  which  all 
happiness  had  for  ever  fled.  She  mooned  about  the 
house  doing  nothing,  and  only  felt  that  youth  had  not 
altogether  departed  from  her  when  she  was  with  her 
mother,  who,  in  her  calm  stability,  was  a  refuge  from 
the  bufFetings  of  life,  but  seemed  to  be  holding  aloof 
from  the  troubles  she  must  have  known  her  girl  to  be 
undergoing. 

Dick  had  gone  up  to  Yorkshire  to  shoot  with  John 
Spence,  and  taken  Virginia  and  Nancy  with  him.  The 
invitation  had  been  extended  to  Joan ;  but  the  Squire 
had  said,  with  what  she  felt  to  be  treacherous  affec- 
tion, "  Surely,  you're  not  both  going  to  desert  j^our  old 
father !  "  and  she  had  refused ;  partly  because  she  had 
dreaded  lest  acceptance  should  bring  down  upon  her  a 
direct  prohibition,  and  the  obliquity  of  a  parent,  whom 
she  still  wished  to  respect  if  she  could,  would  stand 
revealed  in  all  its  nakedness ;  partly  because  Nancy  had 
given  her  no  encouragement,  and  as  things  were  between 
them,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  be  apart  for  a  time.  Her 
mother  had  said  nothing  to  influence  her  either  way. 

Walter   had    taken    his   wife    and    children   back    to 

London,  leaving  Bobby  Trench  in  the  care  of  the  local 

155 


156  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

surgeon.  Frank  had  gone  back  to  Greenwich,  where 
he  was  taking  a  course.  Humphrey  and  Susan  were 
paying  a  flying  visit  to  Hampshire,  to  arrange  about 
the  work  to  be  done  at  Denny  Croft.  But  there  would 
be  a  mild  recrudescence  of  Christmas  gaieties  in  a  week's 
time,  when  there  was  to  be  another  ball,  for  which  most 
of  the  party  would  reassemble. 

Joan  was  sitting  in  the  schoolroom,  feeling  very  low 
and  miserable,  and  wondering  what  was  coming  of  it 
all,  when  she  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  her 
father,  who  visited  this  quarter  of  the  house  at  intervals 
so  rare  as  to  have  permitted  it  to  assume  the  character 
of  a  retreat. 

"  Well,  my  girl,"  he  said  paternally.  "  The  house 
seems  so  empty  that  I  thought  I'd  come  up  for  a  little 
chat." 

It  was  the  hour  when  Mrs.  Clinton  visited  her  recum- 
bent guest,  leaving  the  nurse  free  for  an  airing.  Joan 
had  occasionally  accompanied  her  in  her  w^alks,  but 
found  them  too  apt  to  be  filled  with  talk  about  her 
patient,  couched  in  such  laudatory  language  that  Joan 
suspected  the  patient  of  having  taken  her  into  his  con- 
fidence. In  justice  to  him  it  must  be  said  that  the 
suspicion  was  unfounded,  and  in  justice  to  the  nurse 
that  she  had  eyesight  not  less  acute  than  the  rest  of 
her  sex. 

There  were  times  when  Joan  felt  drawn  to  put  her 
head  on  her  father's  broad  shoulder,  and  receive  the 
protective  petting  which  in  his  milder  moods  he  was  as 
capable  of  administering  as  the  most  consistently  doting 


Joan  Rebellious  157 

of  parents.  This  would  have  been  one  of  those  times 
if  it  had  been  possible  to  regard  him  as  the  solace  as 
well  as  the  occasion  of  her  trouble.  But  enough  of  the 
impulse  remained  to  cause  her  to  welcome  him  with  a 
sense  of  forgiveness,  and  to  make  room  for  him  by  her 
side  on  the  broad  sofa. 

He  would  have  done  well  to  respond  to  the  movement, 
but,  instead,  he  took  up  his  attitude  of  harangue  in 
front  of  her,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  cleared  his 
throat.      She  saw  what  was  coming,  and  stiffened. 

"  Well,  we  shall  have  our  invalid  downstairs  to-mor- 
row," he  made  his  clumsy  opening.  '*  Wonderful  re- 
covery !  'Pon  my  word  I'm  beginning  to  think  that  we 
shall  see  Walter  a  medical  knight  and  I  don't  know 
what  all,  before  we're  much  older." 

"  I  dare  say  it  wasn't  so  bad,  after  all,  as  it  was 
thought  to  be,"  said  Joan.  "  Men  make  such  a  fuss 
about  a  little  pain.     Women  bear  it  much  better." 

This  speech  caused  the  Squire  to  bend  his  brows  upon 
her,  traversing  as  it  did  all  the  traditions  in  which  she 
had  been  brought  up  as  to  the  relative  values  of  the 
sexes,  and  challenging  that  prompt  verbal  chastisement 
with  which  precocious  rebellion  must  be  dealt  with,  if 
those  values  were  to  be  preserved  in  his  own  household. 
But  Joan's  eyes  were  downcast,  and  he  took  warning, 
without  perceiving  its  source,  from  a  certain  angle 
between  the  lines  of  her  neck  and  her  back,  not  to 
pursue  a  by-path  which  would  draw  him — might  indeed 
have  been  opened  up  to  draw  him — from  the  road  he 
had  sought  her  out  to  pursue. 


158  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Well,  that's  as  may  be,"  he  said,  dismissing  the 
offence ;  "  but  the  pain  has  been  borne  well  enough  by 
this  particular  man ;  and  if  a  charge  of  shot  at  such 
close  quarters  that  it  lays  bare  the  bone  and  splinters 
it  isn't  pretty  serious,  I  don't  know  what  is.  Walter 
told  me  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  raise  that  arm 
above  his  shoulder  again,  however  well  it  might  heal." 

Joan  shuddered  at  the  staring  picture,  and  felt  her- 
self convicted  of  brutal  callousness. 

"  However,"  proceeded  her  father,  who  might  advan- 
tageously have  left  an  interval  for  his  words  to  make 
their  effect,  "  the  worst  is  over  now,  and  we  ought  to 
do  what  we  can  to  cheer  him  up  and  help  him  to  forget 
it.  It's  been  pretty  dull  for  him,  lying  there,  mostly 
alone.  Your  mother  has  seen  fit  to  object  for  some 
reason  or  other  to  your  paying  him  a  visit  in  his  room, 
though  I  think  those  ideas  can  be  carried  too  far,  and 
there  couldn't  be  any  harm  in  it,  especially  as  he's  now 
on  the  sofa." 

Then  her  mother  was  on  her  side,  although  she  had 
said  nothing  to  her.  Joan  perceived  quite  plainly  that 
her  father  had  asked  that  she  might  be  taken  to  see 
Bobby  Trench,  and  her  mother  had  refused,  as  she 
sometimes  did  refuse  the  requests  of  her  lord  and 
master,  but  only  if  she  considered  them  quite  beyond 
reason.  Joan  was  drawn  to  one  parent,  and  all  the 
more  set  against  the  other. 

"  I  don't  like  Mr.  Trench,"  she  said.  "  I  shouldn't 
have  gone  to  see  him,  even  if  mother  had  said  I  might ; 
unless  she  had  said  that  I  must." 


Joa?i  Rebellious  159 

"  Well,  she  wouldn't  be  likely  to  say  that,  if  you  didn't 
want  to,"  said  the  Squire,  determined  to  keep  the  inter- 
view on  a  note  of  mild  reasonableness,  in  spite  of  provo- 
cation. "But  now,  I  should  like  to  know  why  you 
have  taken  a  dislike  to  young  Trench.  I  saw  nothing 
of  it  when  he  was  here  before." 

"  You  told  me,  after  he  had  come  here  in  the  summer, 
that  I  had  been  making  too  free  with  him,  and  that 
you  didn't  want  me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  young 
cubs  like  that;  and  that  if  I  wasn't  careful  how  I 
behaved  I  should  find  myself  back  in  the  schoolroom 
with  Miss  Phipp." 

The  Squire  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  had  given 
his  younger  daughters  too  much  rope,  and  should  have 
to  bring  them  up  with  a  round  turn  one  of  these  days. 
But  this  was  not  the  occasion. 

"  Well,  I  remember  I  did  say  something  of  the  sort," 
he  said.  "  I  was  upset  by  that  Amberley  business,  and 
I've  never  gone  back  from  the  view  I  took  then  that  if 
you  had  behaved  sensibly  you  need  never  have  been 
brought  into  it  at  all." 

"  How  could  I  have  helped  it,  father?  " 

"  How  could  you  have  helped  it  ?     Why But  I 

don't  want  to  go  into  all  that  again.  It's  over  and  done 
with,  thank  God,  and  we  can  put  it  out  of  our  minds." 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  But  it's 
rather  hard  to  know  what  to  do,  when  you  scold  me 
for  having  anything  to  do  with  Mr.  Trench  one  day, 
and  want  to  know  why  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
him  the  next." 


160  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

It  was  probably  at  this  moment  that  the  Squire 
realised  that  his  daughter  was  grown  up.  She  spoke 
to  him  as  his  sons  were  accustomed  to  speak,  with  an 
offhand  air  of  equality,  to  which,  in  them,  he  did  not 
object.  It  was  not,  however,  fitting  in  his  eyes  that 
he  should  be  thus  addressed  by  Joan,  and  he  turned 
aside  from  his  purpose  to  say,  "  I'm  sure  you  don't 
mean  to  be  impertinent,  but  that's  not  the  way  to  speak 
to  your  father.  Besides — one  day  and  the  next  day ! 
That's  nonsense,  you  know.  It  must  be  over  six  months 
since  I  said  whatever  it  was  I  did  say,  and  you  were  a 
good  deal  younger  then." 

"  I  was  six  months  younger — that's  all." 

"  Well,  six  months  is  six  months ;  and  a  good  deal 
can  happen  in  six  months.  I've  nothing  to  regret  in 
what  I  said  six  months  ago,  except  that  I  may  have  said 
it  rather  more  strongly  than  I  need  have  done,  annoyed 
as  I  was." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  that  Mr.  Trench  was  really  a 
young  cub,  after  all?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on  repeating  those  words. 
They  are  not  words  for  you  to  say,  whatever  /  may 
say.  But  if  you  ask  me  a  plain  question,  and  put  it 
properly,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  was  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  mistaken  in  young  Trench.  He  has  a  way 
with  him,  on  the  surface,  that  I  didn't  care  about, 
though  I  don't  know  that  it  means  anything  more  than 
that  \\G  has  naturally  high  spirits,  which  are  not  a  bad 
thing  to  have  when  you  are  young." 

"  But  he  isn't  so  very  young.     He  must  be  at  least 


Joan  Rebellious  161 

thirty-five.  /  think  his  way  is  a  very  silly  way,  and  he 
is  quite  old  enough  to  know  better." 

It  was  a  choice  of  repeating  her  words,  "  You 
think ! "  and  going  on  to  explain  with  strong  irritability 
that  it  didn't  matter  what  she  thought ;  or  swallowing 
the  offence.  For  he  could  not  very  well  follow  his  in- 
clination to  upbraid,  without  seriously  impairing  his 
efficacy  for  reasoning  with  her.  He  chose  the  latter 
course. 

"  A  man  of  thirty-five  is  a  young  man  in  these  days, 
especially  if  he  has  led  an  active,  temperate,  open-air 
life,  as  young  fellows  in  good  circumstances  do  lead 
now-a-days." 

"  But  I  thought  one  of  your  objections  to  him  was 
that  he  lived  too  much  in  London." 

He  waved  the  interruption  aside.  "  Even  people 
who  live  for  the  most  part  in  London — work  there, 
perhaps — w^ell,  like  Walter  does — have  a  taste  for 
country  life,  and  go  in  for  sport  and  so  forth  whenever 
they  have  the  opportunity.  In  the  old  days  it  wasn't 
so.  There  was  a  story  of  some  big  political  wig — I 
forget  who  it  was — Fox  or  Walpole  or  Pitt,  or  one  of 
those  fellows — who  had  the  front  of  his  country  house 
paved  with  cobble  stones,  and  made  them  drive  carriages 
about  half  the  night  whenever  he  had  to  be  there,  so 
as  to  make  him  think  he  was  in  St.  James's,  with  the 
hackney-coaches.  Said  he  couldn't  sleep  otherwise. 
Ha,  ha !  " 

"  What  a  good  idea !  "  said  Joan,  brightening  to  an 
opportunity  of  diverting  the  conversation.     "  I  think 


0 


162  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

stories  about  people  in  the  eighteenth  century  are  aw- 
fully interesting.  Father,  you  have  books  of  reminis- 
cences about  them  in  the  library,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  Your  great  grandfather  used  to  read  them. 
He  knew  Fox;  saw  him  come  into  the  Cocoa-Tree  one 

night  and  call  for  a  bumper  of However,  that's 

not  what  we  were  talking  about.  But  it's  got  this  much 
to  do  with  it,  that  men  like  Fox  were  looked  upon  as 
middle-aged  men  at  five  and  thirty,  and  old  men,  by 
George,  at  fifty;  but  a  man  of  thirty-five  now  is  a 
young  man,  and  it's  all  owing  to  the  revival  of  country 
life  and  country  sport,  which,  as  I  say,  everybody  who 
is  anybody  takes  part  in  now-a-days,  whether  he's  a 
Londoner  or  not." 

"  Yes,  I  see.  But  I  like  the  people  who  live  regularly 
in  the  country,  like  you,  and  Dick,  and  Jim.  I  think 
it's  much  the  best  life  for  a  man,  and  a  girl  too.  I 
should  like  to  live  it  always,  myself." 

"  Yes,  well,  I  hope  you  will — for  a  good  part  of  the 
year,  at  any  rate.  Of  course,  you  can't  expect  to  live 
at  home — here  at  Kencote,  I  mean — all  your  life. 
You're  grown  up,  now,  and  when  young  fledglings  feel 
their  wings,  you  know,  the  parent  birds  must  make  up 
their  minds  to  lose  them  out  of  the  nest." 

"  But  they  would  like  to  keep  them  if  they  could. 
You  don't  want  to  lose  me,  father,  do  you?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  for  the  first  time,  and  he  was 
checked  in  the  march  of  his  desires.  A  doubt  came 
to  him  whether  he  did  want  her  to  leave  the  nest  just 
yet  awhile.     It  was  so  very  short  a  time  since  he  had 


Joan  Rebellious  163 

looked  upon  her  and  Nancy  as  still  children,  hardly 
longer,  indeed,  as  it  seemed,  since  they  had  made  their 
somewhat  disconcerting  arrival,  and  from  being  a  laugh- 
able addition  to  his  family,  of  which  he  had  been  the 
least  little  bit  ashamed,  had  found  their  way  to  his 
heart,  and  sensibly  heightened  the  already  strong 
attraction  of  his  home.  If  Nancy  was  about  to  leave 
him,  as  to  his  great  surprise  he  had  recently  heard  was 
likely  to  happen,  and  to  take  just  the  kind  of  husband 
whom  he  had  always  desired  for  his  daughters,  could 
he  not  make  up  his  mind  to  forego  for  a  few  years  the 
advantages  held  out  to  Joan,  who  had  always  been  a 
little  closer  to  the  centre  of  his  heart?  Was  it  so  very 
important  that  she  should  marry  a  man  of  rank,  if  he 
took  the  form  of  Bobby  Trench,  when  there  were  men 
like  John  Spence — good,  honest,  well-born,  wealthy 
country  gentlemen,  men  after  his  own  heart — who  were 
ready  to  come  forward  in  due  time? 

These  questions  presented  themselves  to  him  in  the 
form  of  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  might  find  himself 
obliged  to  change  his  course,  if  he  should  consider  them 
carefully.  He  therefore  shut  his  mind  to  them  as 
quickly  as  possible ;  for  there  is  nothing  a  hasty 
obstinate  character  dislikes  more  than  to  be  compelled  to 
prove  himself  in  the  wrong.  When  others  try  to  prove 
him  in  the  wrong,  he  can  stand  up  to  them. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "  of  course  I  don't  want 
to  lose  you.  But  when  one  is  getting  on  in  years,  you 
know — not  that  I'm  an  old  man — hope  to  have  many 
years  in  front  of  me  yet,  please  God — one  doesn't  live 


164  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons    . 

only  in  the  present.  You  look  forward  into  the  future, 
and  you  like  to  see  your  children  married  and  settled 
down  before  the  time  comes  when  you  must  get  ready 
to  go.  And  now  we've  got  on  to  the  subject  of  marry- 
ing and  settling  down,  I  just  want  to  say  a  word  to 
you  which  you  mustn't  misunderstand,  or  think  I'm 
tr3ang  in  any  way  to  influence  you,  which  is  the  very 
last  thing  I  should  wish  to  do — but  as  a  father  one  is 
bound  to  put  these  matters  in  a  light — not  the  most 
important  light  perhaps,  but  still  one  that  a  young 
girl  can  hardly  be  expected  to  take  much  into  considera- 
tion herself — it  wouldn't  be  advisable  that  she  should. 
In  short — well,  now  we  are  on  the  subject — this  very 
young  man — young  Trench,  whom  we've  been  discuss- 
ing, as  it  turns  out — er This  is  what  I  want  to 

say  to  you — that  I've  reason  to  believe  that — er — 
there's  a  certain  young  lady — ha !  ha !  that  he^d  like  to 
marry  and  settle  down  with,  and — er " 

"  But  wasn't  that  exactly  what  you  came  upstairs 
to  say  to  me,  father  .f^"  asked  Joan,  with  innocent  open 
eyes,  inwardly  girding  herself  to  contempt  against  this 
transparent  duplicity,  and  hardening  herself  to  make 
it  as  uncomfortable  as  possible  for  him  to  say  what 
he  had  to  say,  even  to  the  point  of  exhibiting  herself 
as  almost  immodestly  experienced. 

He  stared  at  her.  "  What !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
have  had  it  in  your  mind  all  along?  " 

"  You  put  it  there,  father,"  she  retorted.  "  I'm 
grown  up  now.  I've  got  eyes  in  my  head.  I  knew 
there  must  be  some  reason  for  your  making  mother  ask 


Joan  Rebellious  165 

him  here,  when  she  dislikes  him  just  as  much  as  I  do, 
and  after  you  had  always  said  that  you  disliked  him 
just  as  much,  or  more." 

He  gulped  down  oceans  of  displeasure  and  inclination 
to   rebuke.     "  Now  look  here,"   he  said.     "  Let's  have 
no  more  harping  on  that  string,  and  no  more  silly  and 
undutiful  speeches.     You  say  you  are  grown-up.     Very 
well,  then,  you  can  listen  to  sense;  and  you  can  talk 
sense   if  you   wish   it.     I've   already   said   that   young 
Trench  displeased  me  when  he  stayed  here  before ;  and, 
as  you  keep   on   reminding  me,  I  said  so  at  the  time 
pretty  plainly.     It's  my  custom  to  speak  plainly,  and 
I've  nothing  to  regret  in  that.     If  he  acted  in  the  same 
way  now,  I  should  object  just  as  strongly.     But  the 
whole  point  is  that  he  would  not  act  in  the  same  way 
now.     It  is  not  I  that  have  changed ;  it  is  he.     Perhaps 
you're   right,   to   a   certain   extent,   in   saying   that   he 
was  old  enough  to  know  better.     But  a  young  fellow 
in  his  position  is  apt  to  keep  on  sowing  his  wild  oats 
when  others  who  have  to  begin  to  take  a  serious  view 
of  life  more  early  have  left  off  doing  it.     Anyhow,  he 
has  left  off  doing  it  now.     He  told  me  himself,  and  I 
was  gratified  to  hear  it,  that  seeing  how  life  went  in  a 
house  like  this  turned  him  round  to  see  that  he  had 
been   playing  the   fool.     There's   nothing  wrong  with 
him  at  bottom,  any  more  than  there  is  anything  wrong 
with  Humphrey,  who  played  the  fool  in  much  the  same 
way  for  years   after  he  ought  to  have  done,  but  has 
come  to  see  you  can't  go  on  playing  the  fool  all  your 
life,  and  is  now  quite  ready  to  settle  down  in  a  sensible 


166  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

way.  You'll  find  when  you  come  to  talk  to  young 
Trench — when  he  comes  down  to-morrow — that " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  him,"  Joan  interrupted. 
"  I  don't  like  him." 

Well,  really !  Was  it  possible  to  talk  sensibly  to 
women  at  all?  Would  the  clearest  logic  and  reason 
weigh  a  grain  against  their  obstinate  likes  and  dislikes.'' 
Was  it  worth  while  going  on.^ 

"  Are  you  going  to  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say,  or 
not?  "  he  asked  impatiently.  "  Or  do  you  want  to 
be ?  " 

"  Sent  to  bed?"  Joan  took  him  up.  "  Yes,  father, 
I  think  you  had  better  send  me  to  bed.  I  know  I'm 
being  a  very  naughty  girl,  but  you  won't  make  me 
like  Mr.  Trench,  however  long  you  talk." 

"  You  are  naughty.  You  are  laying  yourself  out 
to  annoy  me.  There  is  no  question  of  my  making  you 
like  Mr.  Trench,  and  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 
I  am  simply  asking  you  to  behave  with  ordinary 
courtesy  to  a  visitor  in  my  house,  who  has  been  seriously 
hurt  in  coming  to  the  rescue  of  my  own  men — and  in 
the  pluckiest  way  too,  and  might  very  well  have  been 
killed.  Is  that  too  much  to  expect  my  own  daughter 
to  do,  I  should  like  to  know,  or ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  father.  Of  course  I  shall  be  polite.  I 
didn't  know  that  was  all  you  wanted." 

"Yes,  it  is  all  I  want.  You  are  taking  up  a  most 
extraordinary  and  unwarrantable  position.  Anyone 
would  think,  to  hear  you  talk,  that  I  had  come  up  here 
to   order  you   to  marry   young  Trench   out   of  hand. 


Joan  Rebellious  167 

You  see  how  outrageous  it  sounds  when  you  put  it 
plainly." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  docs ;  but  I  thought  it  was  what 
you  meant." 

"  Well,  then,  it  is  not  what  I  meant,  or  anything 
like  it.  I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world  who  would  put 
any  pressure  on  his  daughters  to  marry  anybody;  and 
when  no  word  of  marriage  has  been  mentioned  it  seems 
to  me  indelicate  in  the  highest  degree  for  a  girl  as 
young  as  you  to  be  turning  it  over  and  discussing  it  in 
the  open  way  you  do.  It's  what  comes  of  letting  you 
gad  about  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  amongst  all 
sorts  of  people ;  and  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it." 

Joan  was  enchanted.  His  leg  was  over  the  back  of 
his  favourite  horse  now,  and  she  only  had  to  give  it  a 
flick  in  the  flank  to  set  it  galloping  off*  with  him. 

"  But,  father  dear,  I  haven't  been  gadding  about.  It 
is  six  months  and  more  since  I  went  to  Brummels ;  and 
I'm  sure  I  never  want  to  go  there  again,  after  all  you 
said  about  it,  and  the  people  I  met  there." 

He  reined  in.  The  course  was  too  difficult.  "  You're 
in  a  very  tiresome  and  obstinate  mood,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
don't  like  it.  I  come  up  here  to  spend  a  quiet  half- 
hour  with  you,  and  you  do  nothing  but  set  yourself  to 
annoy  me.  But  there's  one  thing  I  insist  upon ;  I  won't 
have  you  making  yourself  disagreeable  to  a  guest  in 
my  house.  When  young  Trench  comes  downstairs  to- 
morrow, it's  our  common  duty  to  cheer  him  up  and  try 
to  make  up  to  him  for  all  he  has  gone  through  on  our 
account.     And  you  have  got  to  do  your  share  of  it, 


168  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

and  Nancy  too,  when  she  comes  home.  Now  do  you 
quite  understand  that?  " 

"Oh  yes,  father,"  said  Joan.  "  I  quite  understand 
that." 

"  Very  well,  then.     Mind  you  do  it." 

With  which  words  the  Squire  left  the  room  with  an 
air  of  victory. 


CHAPTER  VII 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 


Joan  was  so  far  fortified  by  her  conversation  with  her 
father  that  she  was  quite  prepared  to  play  her  part  in 
entertaining  Bobby  Trench  when  he  exchanged  the  sofa 
in  his  bedroom  for  one  in  the  morning-room. 

She  had  proved  to  herself  that  there  was  little  to 
fear.  Her  own  weapons  had  been  effective  in  turning 
aside  any  that  had  been  brought,  or  could  be  brought, 
against  her.  Her  mother,  although  she  had  not  spoken, 
was  on  her  side,  her  father  had  been  routed  and  was 
sulking.  No  one  else  was  likely  to  assail  her,  unless  it 
was  Bobby  Trench  himself;  and  him  alone  she  had  never 
feared. 

She  was  even  well-disposed  towards  him,  and  ready 
to  amuse  herself  in  the  momentary  dulness  of  the  house, 
as  well  as  him,  by  playing  games,  and  forgetting,  as 
far  as  was  possible,  in  his  spirited  society,  the  troubles 
that  beset  her. 

She  was,  to  tell  the  truth,  not  unsympathetically 
shocked  at  his  appearance  when  she  first  gave  him  greet- 
ing. Although  his  speech  was  as  fluent  and  lively  as 
ever,  his  face  was  pale  and  thin,  and  there  was  no  ignor- 
ing the  seriousness  of  his  bound-up  wound.  But  he 
took  it  all  so  lightly  that  some  sense  of  the  ready  pluck 
he  had  shown  came  home  to  her,  and  abated  her  preju- 

169 


170  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

dice  against  him,  which,  indeed,  had  hardly  existed  until 
he  had  been  presented  to  her  mind  as  an  encouraged 
wooer. 

As  for  him,  his  enforced  absence  from  her  society, 
while  yet  he  knew  that  she  was  under  the  same  roof, 
had  set  him  thinking  about  her  with  ever-increasing 
desire ;  and  to  find  her,  in  her  fresh  young  beauty,  not 
holding  him  at  arm's  length,  as  she  had  done  on  the 
night  of  the  ball,  but  smiling  and  friendly — this  was  to 
bind  the  cords  of  love  till  more  tightly  around  him, 
and  cause  him  most  sweet  discomfort  in  keeping  them 
hidden. 

And  yet,  by  the  time  the  house  filled  again,  he  could 
not  congratulate  himself  on  having  made  any  progress 
with  her.  She  would  laugh  with  him  and  at  him,  and 
keep  him  agreeable  company  for  an  ho.ur  or  two  hours 
together,  during  which  time  their  intimacy  appeared  to 
be  founded  on  a  complete  and  happy  communit}^  of 
taste ;  but  at  a  word  or  hint  of  love-making  she  would 
freeze,  and  if  it  was  persisted  in,  she  would  leave 
him. 

The  poor  man  was  in  tonnents,  underneath  his  gay 
exterior.  If  her  behaviour  had  been  designed  to  draw 
him  on  and  enmesh  him  completely,  it  could  not  have 
been  more  effective.  She  was  merry  with  him,  because 
now  she  liked  him,  as  a  diversion  from  her  lonely,  sad- 
coloured  thoughts.  She  could  forget  her  estrangement 
from  Nancy  when  she  was  playing  with  him,  and  the 
overcasting  of  her  long-familiar  life ;  and  she  felt  so 
confident  of  being  able  to  hold  him  in  his  place  that  the 


Disappointments  171 

designs  she  knew  him  to  be  cherishing  no  longer  troubled 
her  at  all. 

But  how  was  he  to  escape  the  perpetual  hope  that 
Jier  obvious  increase  of  liking  for  him  was  developing 
into  something  warmer  than  mere  liking?  And  how 
was  he  to  avoid  now  and  then  putting  that  hope  to  the 
test,  seeing  her  so  frank  and  so  sweetly  desirable?  He 
was  always  cast  down  to  the  ground  when  he  did  so. 
Love  had  not  blunted  his  native  acuteness,  and  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  state  of  rising  aversion  in  which 
she  met  and  parried  his  tentative  advances.  In  that 
only  was  she  different  from  what  she  had  been ;  for, 
before,  she  had  parried  them  with  a  demure  mischievous- 
ness,  which  had  shown  her  taking  enjoyment  in  the 
exercise  of  her  wits.  Now  she  used  other  weapons,  and 
made  it  plain  that  her  friendliness  would  not  stand  the 
strain,  if  she  was  to  be  put  to  those  contests. 

And  yet  liking  and  love  cannot  be  kept  in  separate 
compartments  in  such  circumstances  as  these.  Liking, 
if  it  grows  big  enough,  becomes  love  some  day  or  other. 
He  knew  that,  and  she  didn't ;  which  was  why  he  put 
very  strong  constraint  on  himself,  made  few  mistakes 
in  the  way  of  premature  soundings,  and  set  himself 
diligently  to  be  the  indispensable  companion  of  her  days. 
The  underlying  contest,  viewed  from  without,  would 
have  been  seen  to  turn  upon  the  question  of  his  possess- 
ing qualities  which  would  satisfy  the  deeper  currents 
of  her  nature.  Gaiety  and  courage  he  had,  and  self- 
control,  if  he  cared  to  exercise  it.  Some  amount  of 
goodwill  towards  the  world  at  large,  also;  but  that  was 


172  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

apt  to  hang  upon  the  satisfaction  or  otherwise  that 
he  received  from  it.  It  was  likely  to  come  out  at  its 
strongest  in  his  present  condition  of  mind,  and  to  throw 
into  shadow  his  innate  triviality. 

It  always  seemed  to  Joan  that  he  showed  up  least 
attractively  in  the  presence  of  her  mother,  and  this 
although  he  seemed  more  anxious  to  please  her  than 
he  did  to  please  Joan  herself. 

Bobby  Trench  could  never  have  said  that  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton was  not  giving  him  his  chance.  She  never  came  into 
the  room  as  if  she  wished  to  keep  guard,  nor  turned  a 
disapproving  face  upon  the  merriment  that  he  made 
with  Joan.  She  would  respond  to  his  sallies,  and  her 
smile  was  free,  if  it  was  aroused  at  all. 

He  thought  that  he  had  taken  her  measure.  She  was 
at  heart  a  serious  woman,  and  on  that  account  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  take  very  readily  to  him,  for 
he  hated  seriousness,  and  it  was  out  of  his  power  to 
disguise  it.  But  she  was  a  nonentity  in  this  house:  he 
had  heard  her  husband  speak  to  her.  The  Squire  was 
warmly  in  his  favour,  for  reasons  w^hich  were  too  obvious 
to  need  stating,  and  those  reasons  might  be  expected  to 
appeal  equally  to  Mrs.  Clinton,  who  would  also  follow 
her  husband's  lead  in  everything.  He  did  think  that 
it  was  owing  to  her  that  Joan  had  been  prevented  from 
visiting  him  upstairs,  for  the  Squire  had  given  him  that 
hint,  without  intending  to  do  so.  But  he  put  that  down 
to  her  old-fashioned  prudery,  and  had  forgiven  her  for 
it,  since  she  now  seemed  quite  willing  to  leave  Joan 
alone  with  him.     She  might  practically  be  disregarded 


Disappointments  173 

as  far  as  effective  opposition  was  concerned ;  but  it 
would  be  as  well  to  keep  on  her  right  side,  for  Joan 
was  evidently  very  fond  of  her,  and  by  commending  him- 
self to  her  he  would  commend  himself  to  Joan. 

None  but  a  shallow  brain  could  have  judged  of  Mrs. 
Clinton  as  a  nonentity,  when  opportunities  for  observ- 
ing her  were  such  as  Bobby  Trench  enjoyed.  The  very 
fact  that  when  she  was  present  his  humour  seemed  even 
to  him  to  wear  thin,  and  the  conversation  always  fol- 
lowed the  paths  into  which  she  directed  it,  might  have 
warned  him  of  that  error.  The  paths  she  chose  were 
not  such  as  he  could  disport  himself  in  to  any  advantage, 
although  she  trod  them  naturally  enough,  and  Joan 
followed  her  as  if  she  liked  taking  them. 

Ideas  make  the  best  talk,  someone  has  said,  then 
things,  then  people.  Bobby  Trench  could  talk  about 
people  all  day  and  all  night  if  he  were  to  be  called 
upon ;  his  experience  had  been  wide,  he  had  a  fund  of 
anecdote,  and  a  quick  eye  for  a  point.  To  talk  well 
about  "  things,"  you  want  reading  and  knowledge,  of 
which  he  had  little.  To  talk  well  about  ideas,  you  want 
some  of  your  own,  and  he  had  but  few.  He  heard  Joan, 
to  his  surprise,  venturing  herself  with  interest  on  sub- 
jects to  which  he  had  never  given  a  moment's  thought, 
and  on  which  his  readily  produced  speeches  were  like 
those  of  a  child  pushing  into  and  spoiling  the  converse 
of  its  elders.  Joan  would  sometimes  look  at  him  in 
surprise,  as  if  he  had  said  something  particularly 
foolish,  when  he  was  not  aware  of  having  done  so.  He 
felt  at  a  disadvantage. 


174  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

He  could  not  see  that  the  question  of  woman's 
suffrage,  which  he  started  himself,  was  not  satisfactorily 
covered  by  funny  stories  about  the  suffragettes,  and 
thought  Mrs.  Clinton  a  bore  for  going  on  with  it.  She 
asked  him  about  plays  which  he  had  seen  and  of  which 
she  had  read,  and  he  told  her  about  actors  and  actresses. 
Of  books  he  knew  nothing.  They  were  not  much  talked 
about  at  Kencote,  but  Mrs.  Clinton  read  a  good  deal, 
and  so  did  Joan  and  Nancy,  and  talked  between  them- 
selves of  what  they  read.  It  was  impossible  to  keep 
allusion  altogether  out  of  their  talk,  although  they 
spared  him  as  much  as  possible,  having  been  trained 
to  do  so  in  the  similar  case  of  the  Squire,  whose  broad 
view  of  literature  was  that  as  nobody  had  written  better 
than  Shakespeare,  it  was  waste  of  time  to  read  anything 
else  until  you  had  thoroughly  mastered  him,  in  which 
modest  feat,  however,  he  had  not  himself  made  any 
startling  progress.  But  Bobby  Trench,  otherwise  quite 
at  ease  as  to  his  ignorance  on  such  negligible  matters, 
felt  that  it  would  have  been  to  his  benefit  with  Mrs. 
Clinton,  and  possibly  with  Joan,  if  he  could  have  done 
with  rather  less  explanation  of  points  that  were  readily 
appreciated  by  either  of  them. 

And  yet  no  intellectual  demands  would  have  been  made 
of  a  man  like  John  Spence  that  would  have  shown  him 
to  disadvantage  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  meet  them. 
His  simple  modesty  would  have  fared  better  than  Bobby 
Trench's  superficial  smartness,  because  he  would  never 
have  tried  to  shine,  and,  failing,  made  a  parade  of  his 


Disappointments  175 

ignorance.  He  would  have  been  tried  by  other  tests, 
and  come  through  them. 

It  was  by  these  other  tests  that  Bobby  Trench  stood 
or  fell  with  Mrs.  Clinton,  not  by  his  lack  of  intellectual 
interests. 

What  did  he  ask  of  life  for  himself.? 

A  good  time. 

How  did  he  stand  with  regard  to  the  wealth  and  posi- 
tion which  were  the  unacknowledged  cause  of  his  being 
where  he  was.?     Were  they  to  be  held  as  opportunities? 

Yes,  for  giving  him  a  good  time. 

What  had  he  to  bestow  on  others? 

Luncheons,  dinners,  suppers,  boxes  at  theatres,  motor 
trips,  yachting  trips — all  the  material  for  a  good  time — 
on  his  equals ;  money  tips,  drinks,  an  occasional  patronis- 
ing cigar,  on  such  of  his  inferiors  as  served  or  pleased 
him,  so  that  he  might  imagine  them  also  to  be  having 
a  good  time,  according  to  their  degree. 

What  did  he  demand  from  those  of  whom  he  made  his 
friends  ? 

Assistance  in  the  great  aim  of  having  a  good  time, 
which  cannot  be  enjoyed  alone.  Nothing  be^^ond  that; 
no  steadfastness  in  friendship,  no  character;  only  the 
power  to  amuse  or  to  share  amusement. 

That  was  Bobby  Trench,  as  he  revealed  himself  from 
day  to  day  to  the  woman  whom  he  treated  w4th  almost 
patronising  attention,  and  considered  a  nonentity. 
Whether  he  so  revealed  himself  to  Joan  there  was  noth- 
ing yet  to  show ;  but  it  was  unlikely  that  she  would  have 
so  clear  a  vision,  or  indeed  that  a  good  time,  if  he  could 


176  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

persuade  her  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  offer  it,  would 
not  appeal  to  her,  at  her  age,  as  of  more  importance 
than  her  mother  could  have  desired. 

Joan  scanned  Nancy's  face  on  her  return  home  for 
signs  of  relenting,  and  of  a  story  completed.  Neither 
appeared.  Nancy  kissed  her  lightly,  and  said,  "  We've 
had  an  awfully  cold  journey."  Joan's  heart  sank 
again. 

"  How  did  you  enjoy  yourself  .^^ "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  awfully.  It  is  a  splendid  great  house,  bigger 
than  this,  and  much  older.  There  were  a  lot  of  people 
staying  there.  We  danced  in  the  ball-room  every  night, 
and  had  great  fun.  Dick's  leg  is  pretty  well  right  now, 
though  he  had  to  shoot  from  a  pony.  How  is  Mr. 
Trench.?" 

The  bald  sentences  marked  the  gulf  that  had  opened 
between  them.  And  there  had  not  been  a  word  of  John 
Spence. 

He  dined  at  Kencote  that  night.  Joan  saw  how  much 
in  love  he  was  with  Nancy;  and  indeed  it  was  plain  to 
everybody.  The  Squire  was  in  the  highest  state  of  good 
humour.  He  had  had  no  more  trouble  with  Joan,  and 
no  longer  sulked  with  her,  having  frequently  made  a 
third  or  fourth  in  the  society  of  the  morning-room,  and 
judged  everything  to  be  going  on  there  as  he  would 
have  had  it.  And  now  there  was  this  other  affair,  going 
also  exactly  as  he  would  have  it.  He  felt  that  Provi- 
dence was  busily  at  work  on  his  behalf,  and  showed  that 
it  had  the  welfare  of  the  landed  interest,  in  a  general 
sort  of  way,  at  heart. 


Disapj^oint  ments  177 

The  landed  interest,  thougli,  had  to  keep  a  look-out 
on  its  own  account,  if  those  responsible  were  to  be 
properh-  treated  by  the  rank  and  file  partly  concerned  in 
its  continuance.  There  was  a  slight  set-back  the  next 
morning,  which  the  Squire  took  more  to  heart  than 
seemed  warranted. 

The  under-keeper,  Gotch,  who  had  come  to  Hum- 
phrey's rescue  in  the  wood,  and  behaved  well  in  the 
affair  generally,  had  been  thanked,  and  told  that  some 
substantial  recognition  of  his  merits  would  be  con- 
sidered, and  in  due  course  certainly  made. 

The  Squire  now  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  able 
to  see  his  way  to  a  more  handsome  reward  than  he  had 
at  first  thought  of,  or  than  was,  indeed,  called  for  in  the 
case  of  a  man  who  had  merely  acted  well  in  the  course 
of  his  duty.  But  he  prided  himself  on  taking  an 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  all  his  serv^ants ;  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  say  that  he  was  not  like  those  who  treated 
them  as  machines ;  and  he  was  genuinely  pleased  that 
circumstances  brought  it  about  that  he  could  do  Gotch 
a  very  good  turn,  also  at  the  prospect  of  telling  him  so. 

Gotch  came  to  see  him,  on  summons,  in  his  business 
room.  He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  country-bred  man- 
hood, about  thirty  years  of  age,  upright  and  clean  of 
limb,  with  a  resourceful  look  on  his  open,  weather-tanned 
face,  and  speech  quiet,  but  readier  and  more  direct  than 
is  usual  with  men  of  his  class.  He  stood  in  his  well- 
kept  velveteens,  cap  in  hand  before  his  master,  and 
looked  him  in  the  face  when  he  addressed  him. 

"  Well,  Gotch,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  his  usual 


178  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

position  in  front  of  the  fire.  "  I  hear  you've  been 
making  love,  what?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Gotch,  dropping  his  eyes  for  a 
moment. 

"  Clark,  eh?  Lady  Susan  Clinton's  maid.  Well,  she 
seems  a  very  respectable  j^oung  woman,  from  what  I've 
seen  of  her,  and  her  ladyship  tells  me  she's  saved  a 
bit  of  money,  which  is  satisfactory,  what?  And  I  dare 
say  you've  saved  a  bit  yourself." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"When  do  you  want  to  get  married?  " 

The  question  was  asked  wuth  business-like  curtness, 
and  was  answered  as  shortly.     "  Soon  as  possible,  sir." 

"  Yes.  Well  now,  I've  been  turning  things  over  in  my 
mind,  Gotch.  I  told  you  that  I  should  do  something 
for  you,  to  mark  my  appreciation  of  the  way  you 
behaved  in  the  affair  with  those  scoundrels  in  Buckle 
Wood.  In  one  way,  you  only  did  your  duty,  as  any- 
body in  my  employ  is  expected  to  do  it ;  but  that's  not 
the  way  I  look  at  things.  Those  who  do  well  by  me — 
I  like  to  do  well  by  them ;  and  there's  not  much  doubt 
that  if  you  hadn't — or  somebody  hadn't — hit  that 
ruffian  on  the  head — and  just  at  the  moment  you  did, 
too,  by  George — it  might  have  gone  very  hard  for  Mr. 
Humphrey.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  what  would  have 
happened." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Gotch,  as  there  came  a  pause 
in  the  flow  of  eloquence. 

"  Very  well,  then.  You  want  to  get  married.  In  the 
ordinary  way  you  couldn't  just  yet,  because  there  isn't 


Disappointments  179 

a  cottage.  Now,  Gotch,  I'll  build  you  a  cottage.  I've 
been  talking  it  over  with  Captain  Clinton,  and  we've 
decided  to  do  that.  There's  a  site  in  Buckle  Wood 
about  a  hundred  yards  in  from  the  gate  on  the  Bath- 
gate Road  that'll  be  the  very  thing.  I  dare  say  you 
know  the  place  I  mean — that  clearing  hard  by  the 
brook.  You  shall  have  a  good  six-roomed  house  and 
a  nice  bit  of  garden  and  so  forth,  and  everything  that 
you  can  want  for  bringing  up  a  family.  Ha !  ha !  must 
look  forward  a  bit,  you  know,  in  these  matters.  And 
there  you'll  be  till  the  time  comes  when — well,  I  won't 
make  any  promises,  and  Rattray  isn't  an  old  man  yet — 
but  when  he  comes  to  the  end  of  his  time,  if  you  go  on 
as  you've  begun,  you  take  his  place  as  head-keeper. 
And  let  me  tell  you  that  head-keeper  on  a  place  like 
Kencote  is  about  as  good  a  job  as  any  man  has  a  right 
to  look  forward  to.  You'll  follow  some  good  men — 
men  that  have  been  written  about  in  books,  amongst 
them — and  I  believe  you'll  fill  the  place  as  well  as  any 
of  them.  You've  got  that  to  look  forward  to,  Gotch, 
and  in  the  meantime  you'll  be  very  nearly  as  well  off 
as  Rattray.  In  fact,  your  house  will  be  a  better  house 
than  his.  We  did  think  of  moving  him  there  and  put- 
ting you  into  his  cottage,  but  decided  not.  Now  what 
have  you  got  to  say,  Gotch  .^  Will  that  meet  your 
views  ?  " 

Gotch  turned  his  cap  in  his  hands.  "  Well,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  and 
Captain  Clinton  too.  It's  a  handsome  return  for  what 
I  done,  and  kindly  thought  of." 


180  TJie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Well,  we  think  kindly  of  you,  Gotch,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  I  hope  we  think  kindly  of  all  the  people  on 
the  place,  and  do  what  we  can  for  their  happiness.  But 
we  owe  you  something  special,  and  it's  right  that  we 
should  do  something  special." 

It  was  not,  in  fact,  anything  remarkably  self-sacrific- 
ing that  the  Squire  intended  to  do.  There  was  a  dearth 
of  cottages  at  Kencote,  as  there  is  on  so  many  other- 
wise well-managed  country  estates.  Young  people  who 
wished  to  marry  were  sometimes  prevented  from  doing 
so  for  years,  and  there  were  cases  of  overcrowding  in 
existing  cottages,  which,  while  not  amounting  to  a 
scandal,  might  possibly  be  worked  up  into  one  by  hostile 
critics.  A  new  medical  officer  of  health,  residing  out- 
side the  sphere  of  the  Squire's  social  influence,  and  more 
than  suspected  of  Radical  tendencies,  had  caused 
notices  to  be  served  during  the  past  year;  and,  w^orse 
than  that,  a  London  journalist  spending  his  holidays 
at  a  farmhouse  just  outside  the  manor  of  Kencote  had 
poked  his  nose  in  where  he  had  no  business  to  take  it, 
and  written  a  very  one-sided  g,rticle  on  the  depopulation 
of  rural  England,  with  Kencote  and  its  owner  as  a  text. 
The  Squire  had  been  greatly  scandalised,  and  would 
have  rushed  instantly  into  print  had  not  Dick's  cooler 
head  restrained  him.  Unfair  and  ill-informed  as  both 
of  them  judged  the  article  to  be,  there  was  enough 
truth  in  it  to  give  the  enemy  a  handle.  There  was 
overcrowding,  though  not  to  any  serious  extent ;  and 
there  was  a  dearth  of  cottage  accommodation. 


Disajopointments  181 

"  Much  better  build  a  few,  and  stop  their  mouths," 
said  Dick. 

"  It  doesn't  pay  to  build  cottages,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  It  can't  pay,  with  these  ridiculous  bye-laws." 

"Can't  be  helped,"  said  Dick.  "We  can  afFord  to 
make  this  property  a  model  one  up  to  a  point,  and  we'd 
much  better  take  the  bone  out  of  their  mouths.  It 
isn't  a  very  big  one.  It  will  only  cost  us  a  few  hundreds 
to  satisfy  everybody.  And  they'll  like  our  doing  it  less 
than  anything.  Besides,  we've  got  to  do  something. 
That  fellow  Moxon  has  a  wife  and  five  children  sleeping 
in  two  rooms,  and  that  sort  of  thing  simply  doesn't  do 
now-a-days." 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "  I  think 
Virginia  has  been  putting  some  of  her  American  notions 
into  your  head,"  he  said.  "  It  did  well  enough  in  my 
grandfather's  time,  and  he  was  much  ahead  of  his  time 
in  that  sort  of  thing.  He  built  model  cottages  before 
anybody,  almost,  and  Kencote  has  always  been  con- 
sidered  " 

"  Oh,  well,  we  needn't  go  into  all  that,"  interrupted 
Dick.  "  Moxon  has  been  served  with  a  notice,  and  if 
we  don't  do  something  for  him  we  shall  lose  him.  Let's 
be  ahead  of  our  time.  There  hasn't  been  a  brick  laid  on 
the  place  for  fifty  years  or  more,  except  at  the  home 
fai*m  and  the  stables  here.  It  won't  do  any  harm  to 
improve  the  property  in  that  way,  and  we've  got  the 
money  in  hand.  We  might  begin  with  another  keeper's 
cottage.  We  ought  to  have  somebody  in  Buckle 
Wood." 


182  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

And  that  was  how  it  all  came  to  fit  in  so  nicely  with 
the  reward  due  to  Gotch,  turning  his  cap  round  in  his 
hands  in  front  of  his  master. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Gotch,  "  if  I  was  thinking  of  keep- 
ing to  what  I've  been  doing — and  comfortable  enough  at 
it  under  you  and  Captain  Clinton — for  the  rest  of  my 
life,  nothing  wouldn't  have  suited  me  better,  and  I  take 
leave  to  thank  you  for  it.  But  as  you  was  so  good  as 
to  say  you  was  going  to  do  something  substantial  for 
me,  me  and  'er  talked  it  over,  and  we  were  going 
to  ask  you  if  you'd  help  us  to  get  over  to  Canada,  to 
start  farming.  She's  got  a  brother  there  what's  doing 
well,  and  I'd  look  to  do  as  well  as  him  if  I  could  get  a 
fair  start." 

The  Squire  heard  him  out,  but  his  heavy  brows  came 
together,  and  by  the  end  of  the  speech  had  met  in  a 
frown  of  displeasure.  One  of  the  points  made  by  the 
London  journalist  had  been  that  the  best  blood  and 
muscle  of  the  countryside  was  being  drafted  overseas, 
because  by  the  selfishness  of  landowners  there  was  no 
room  for  them  in  rural  England;  and  here  was  a  man 
for  whom  room  was  being  made  in  the  most  generous 
manner,  who  wished  to  join  in  the  altogether  unnecessary 
stampede. 

"  Canada !  "  he  echoed  impatiently.  "  I  think  you 
fellows  think  that  the  soil  is  made  of  gold  in  Canada. 
What  do  youy  of  all  people,  want  to  go  dancing  off  to 
Canada  for?  You're  not  a  practical  farmer,  and  even 
if  you  were  there'd  be  better  chances  for  you  in  the 
old  country  than  in  all  the  Canadas  in  the  world." 


Disappoin  tments  183 

"  Well,  jou  know  more  about  these  things  than  I  do, 
sir,"  said  Gotch  respectfully.  "  And  I  don't  say  as  I 
should  want  to  go  if  it  was  all  in  the  air  like.  But 
there's  'er  brother's  offer  open  to  me.  He'll  put  me 
into  the  way  of  doing  as  well  as  he  done  himself,  if  I 
can  take  a  bit  of  money  out  with  me.  He's  a  w  ell-to-do 
man,  and  he  wasn't  no  better  than  me  when  he  went  over 
there  ten  years  ago." 

"  Well,  and  ain't  I  giving  you  the  offer  of  being  a 
well-to-do  man,  without  pulling  up  stakes  and  starting 
again  in  a  new  country?  What  more  can  a  man  want 
than  to  have  a  good  home  and  situation  secured  to  him, 
on  which  he  can  marry  and  bring  up  a  family,  and  work 
that  he's  fitted  for  and  likes  .'^  You  do  like  your  work, 
don't  you.f^  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  should  like  it  better  than  anything, 
if " 

"If  what.?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  won't  take  it  amiss  what  I  says, 
sir;  but  every  man  what's  w^orth  anything  likes  to  be 
his  own  master,  sir.  It  don't  mean  that  he's  any  com- 
plaint to  make  of  them  as  he  serves ;  and  I  haven't  no 
complaint — far  otherwise.  I'Ve  done  my  best  by  you, 
sir,  and  knowed  as  I  should  get  credit  for  it,  and  be 
well  treated,  as  I  'ave  been  most  handsome,  by  your 
kind  offer.  But  it  isn't  just  what  I  want,  sir,  and  I 
make  bold  to  say  so,  hoping  not  to  be  misunderstood." 

"  Oh,  you're  not  misunderstood,"  said  the  Squire,  un- 
softened  by  this  straightforward  speech.  "  The  fact 
is  that  you've  got  some  pestilent  socialistic  notion  in 


184<  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

jour  head  that  I'm  very  sorry  to  see  there.  I  didn't 
think  it  of  you,  Gotch,  and  I  don't  like  it.  I  don't 
like  it  at  all.     It's  ungrateful." 

"  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  wish  to  be  that,  sir." 

"  But  you  are  that.  Don't  you  see  that  you  are.?  A 
master  has  his  duty  towards  those  under  him,  and  in  my 
case  I'm  going  out  of  my  way  to  do  more  than  my  duty 
to  you.  But  a  man  has  his  duty  towards  his  master 
too.  That's  what  seems  to  be  forgotten  now-a-days. 
It's  all  self.  I'm  offering  you  something  that  ninety- 
nine  men  out  of  a  hundred  would  jump  at  in  your 
position,  and  you  throw  it  in  my  face.  You  won't  be 
any  happier  as  your  own  master,  I  can  tell  you  that. 
You've  learnt  your  Catechism,  and  you  know  what  it 
says  about  doing  your  duty  in  the  state  of  life  to  which 
you  are  called.  You  are  called  plainly  to  the  state  of 
life  in  which  you  can  do  your  share  in  keeping  up  the 
institutions  that  have  made  this  country  what  it  is ; 
and  you  won't  be  doing  right  if  you  try  to  go  out- 
side it." 

"  Well,  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  don't  see  things 
quite  in  the  same  light.  As  long  as  I'm  in  your  service, 
sir,  I'll  do  my  duty  as  well  as  I  know  how.  But  every 
man  has  got  a  right  to  try  and  better  himself,  to  my 
way  of  thinking,  and  I  did  hope  as  how  you'd  see  that, 
and  lend  me  a  hand  to  do  well  for  myself." 

The  Squire  straightened  himself.  "  I  see  it's  no  use 
talking  sensibly  to  you,  Gotch,"  he  said.  "  You  simply 
repeat  the  same  things  over  and  over  again.  If  you 
want  me  to  promise  you  money  to  take  you  out  of  the 


Disappointinents  185 

country  when  I  think  it's  phiinly  pointed  out  by  Provi- 
dence that  you  should  stay  in  it,  I'm  sorry  I  don't  see  my 
way  to  oblige  you.  In  the  meantime  you  may  consider 
the  offer  I  made  to  you  open  for  the  present.  It's  a  very 
good  one,  and  you'll  be  a  fool  if  you  don't  take  it.  And 
I  shan't  keep  it  open  indefinitely.  I  shouldn't  keep  it 
open  at  all,  after  the  way  you  have  spoken,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  what  you  did  a  fortnight  ago.  And  it's  that 
or  nothing." 

He  turned  towards  his  w^riting  table.  Gotch,  after  a 
pause  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  more, 
glanced  at  the  profile  presented  to  him,  said,  "  Thank 
jou,  sir,"  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER   VIII 


PROPOSALS 


"  Well,  my  dear,  everybody  seems  to  be  busily  em- 
ployed except  you  and  me.  It's  a  fine  morning.  Sup- 
posing we  go  for  a  walk  together !  " 

Lord  Sedbergh  beamed  upon  Joan  affectionately. 
He  was  a  stoutish,  elderly  man,  with  a  large,  clean- 
shaven face,  not  unhandsome,  and  noticeably  kind,  and 
a  bald  head  fringed  with  grey-white  hair.  He  had 
arrived  at  Kencote  the  afternoon  before,  to  find  his 
son  recovering  as  fast  as  could  be  hoped  for,  and  to 
make  a  pleasant  impression  on  the  company  there 
assembled  by  his  readiness  to  make  friends  all  round. 
He  and  the  Squire  v/ere  cronies  already,  and  took  delight 
in  reminiscences  of  their  bright  youth,  which  seemed  to 
come  nearer  to  them  at  every  story  told. 

The  sky  was  clear  and  frosty,  the  sun  bestowed  mild 
brilliance  on  the  browns  and  purples  and  greens  of  the 
winter  landscape,  the  roads  were  hard  and  clean  under 
foot.  It  was  the  right  morning  for  a  long  walk,  that 
form  of  recreation  so  seldom  enjoyed  for  its  own  sake 
by  the  Squire  of  Kencote  and  his  likes.  He  came  to 
the  door  as  Joan  and  Lord  Sedbergh  were  setting  out 
together,  and  expressed  a  hope  that  Joan  was  not  boring 
her  companion.  "  I've  got  things  that  I  must  do  for 
another  hour  or  so,"  he  said ;  "  but  we  could  go  up  to  the 

186 


Proposals  187 

home  farm  at  eleven  o'clock  if  tliat  suited  you ;  and  the 
papers  will  be  here  in  half-an-hour." 

"  My  dear  Edward,'"  said  Lord  Sedbergh,  "  I  wouldn't 
lose  my  walk  with  my  friend  Joan  for  all  the  home  farms 
in  the  world,  or  all  the  papers  that  were  ever  written. 
And  as  for  her  boring  me,  she  couldn't  do  it  if  she  tried. 
Come  along,  Joan." 

Lord  Sedbergh  liad  a  trace  of  the  garrulity  that 
distinguished  the  conversation  of  his  son,  but  it  was 
a  ripe  garrulity,  founded  on  wide  experience  of  the 
world,  and  great  good  will  towards  mankind.  And  he 
had  gifts  of  taste  and  knowledge  besides,  although  his 
indolence  had  prevented  him  making  any  significant  use 
of  them.  Joan  found  him  the  most  agreeable  company, 
almost  as  diverting  as  her  uncle,  Sir  Herbert  Birkett, 
and  just  as  informative  as  an  elderly  man  has  a  right 
to  be  with  an  intelligent  young  girl  for  her  entertain- 
ment, and  no  more. 

He  told  her  about  his  early  life  in  foreign  cities,  and 
amused  her  with  his  stories.  An  easy  strain  of  past 
intimacy  with  notable  people  and  events  ran  through 
his  talk. 

"  Life  was  very  interesting  in  those  days,"  he  said. 
"  I  often  wish  I  had  stuck  to  diplomacy.  I  might  have 
been  an  ambassador  by  this  time — probably  should  have 
been." 

"  Why  did  you  give  it  up?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear,  if  I  hadn't 
given  it  up  when  I  did  I  should  have  been  appointed 
to  the  Embassy  at  Washington;  and  don't  breathe  a 


188  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

word  of  it  to  your  charming  sister-in-law,  but  I  have 
no  particular  use  for  America.  There  it  is,  you  see — ■ 
probably,  after  all,  I  should  not  have  been  made  an 
ambassador.  It  wasn't  the  diplomatic  game  I  so  much 
cared  about,  or  Washington  would  have  done  as  well 
as  any  other  place  to  play  it  in.  No,  it  was  the  life  of 
foreign  cities  I  liked  as  a  3^oung  man.  I  like  it  still. 
I  go  abroad  a  great  deal,  and  wander  all  over  the  place. 
I  like  pictures  and  churches  now,  though  I  can't  say 
I  paid  much  attention  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  old 
days.  Yes,  it  is  one  of  my  chief  pleasures  now,  to  go 
abroad.     I  have  been  all  over  Europe." 

"  I  should  love  to  go  abroad,"  said  Joan.  "  I  have 
never  been  out  of  England,  and  very  seldom  away  from 
Kencote." 

He  looked  at  her  affectionately.  "  You  have  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  to  come,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  very 
much  hoping  that  it  may  come  to  me  to  give  you  some 
of  it.  Tell  me,  my  little  Joan,  are  you  going  to  give 
that  boy  of  mine  what  he  wants  ^  " 

The  abrupt  transition  threw  her  into  confusion.  She 
put  her  muff  to  her  mouth,  and  took  it  away  again  to 
stammer,  "  I  don't  know.  I  mean  I  haven't  thought  of 
it — of  anything." 

He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  her  face.  "  Well,  I  sup- 
pose it  is  rather  impertinent  of  me  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion," he  said,  "  before  he  has  asked  it  himself.  But  I 
think  it  is  plain  enough  that  he  wants  to  ask  it,  if 
you  will  let  him ;  and  you  see  I'm  so  interested  in  the 
answer  you  are  going  to  give  him,  on  my  own  account, 


Proposals  189 

that  I  find  it  difficult  to  keep  away  from  it.  You  must 
put  it  down  to  the  impatience  of  old  age,  Joan.  The 
things  old  people  want  they  want  quickly." 

"  You  are  not  old,"  said  Joan  in  a  turmoil. 

"  Not  so  old,  my  dear,  but  what  we  shall  have  many 
good  times  together,  if  you  come  to  us,  as  I  hope  you 
will.  I  shouldn't  allow  Bobby  to  monopolise  you,  you 
know.  When  he  did  his  bit  of  soldiering  in  the  summer 
you  and  I  would  go  off  on  a  trip  together.  And  we'd 
drag  him  away  from  his  hunting  sometimes,  and  go  off 
in  search  of  sunshine — Egypt,  Algiers,  all  sorts  of 
places — make  up  a  little  party.  And  you  and  I  would 
get  together  at  Brummels  occasionally,  and  amuse  our- 
selves quietly  while  the  rest  of  them  were  making  a  noise, 
as  we  did  before.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  I've  got  very  selfish 
designs  on  you,  my  dear ;  but  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  way, 
you  know;  I  should  never  be  in  the  way.  I  shouldn't 
want  to  make  Bobby  jealous." 

It  crossed  Joan's  mind  that  if  he  were  to  be  always 
in  the  way,  and  Bobby  out  of  it,  the  proposal  would 
be  more  attractive  than  it  was  at  present.  But  so  many 
thoughts  crossed  her  mind  while  he  was  speaking,  and 
she  could  not  give  expression  to  any  one  of  them. 

He  looked  at  her  with  kind  eyes.  "  You  do  like  him, 
little  Joan,  don't  you .?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but — oh,  not  in  that  way."  Again 
her  muff  went  to  her  face. 

A  shade  of  disappointment  crossed  his.  "  Then  I 
mustn't  press  you,"  he  said.  "  But  you  are  very  young, 
my  dear.     Perhaps  some  day — — !     And  I  shall  be  a 


190  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

very  pleased  old  man  if  I  can  one  day  have  you  for  a 
daughter.  There  would  be  a  house  ready  for  you,  and 
all — a  charming  house — you  saw  it — the  Lodge,  you 
know.  I  lived  there  when  I  was  first  married.  I  should 
like  to  see  you  there.  I'd  do  it  up  for  you  from  top  to 
toe,  exactly  as  you  liked  it.  And  I'd  give  you  a  motor- 
car of  your  own  to  get  about  in  and  pay  your  visits ;  and 
there  are  good  stables  if  you  want  to  ride.  I  hope  you 
would  live  there  a  good  part  of  the  year,  and  there 
would  be  plenty  of  room  for  your  friends  and  relations. 
You  would  come  to  us,  I  hope,  in  London.  Your  own 
rooms  would  be  kept  for  you  in  my  house,  and  you 
could  have  them  as  you  wanted  them.  There  would  be 
Scotland  in  the  Autumn.  You've  never  seen  Glenmuick. 
We're  out  all  day  there,  and  I  don't  know  that  it  isn't 
even  better  than  going  abroad.  Bobby  doesn't  care 
about  fishing,  but  I  think  you  would.  We'd  leave  him 
to  his  stalking,  and  go  off  and  spend  long  days  on  the 
loch  and  by  the  river.  You'd  never  get  tired  of  that. 
Then  there's  the  yacht.  You'd  get  lots  of  fun  out  of 
the  yacht,  if  you  like  that  sort  of  thing.  We  generally 
go  to  Cowes,  and  have  a  little  cruise  afterwards,  just 
to  blow  away  the  cobwebs  we  get  from  amusing  our- 
selves too  hard  in  London.  You'd  get  lots  of  change, 
and  your  pretty  house  as  a  background  to  it  all,  where 
you'd  be  queen  of  your  own  kingdom,  my  little  Joan. 
There  now,  it  looks  as  if  I  were  trying  to  tempt  you, 
with   all  sorts  of  things   that  wouldn't   really  matter, 

unless  you Well,  of  course,  they  do  matter.     Love 

in  a  cottage  is  all  very  well,  but  I  think  young  people 


Proposals  191 

are  likely  to  get  on  better  together  If  they've  both  got 
something  to  do.  And  you'd  have  plenty  to  do.  I 
don't  think  you  would  ever  feel  dull." 

If  Mrs.  Clinton  had  heard  this  speech  she  might  not 
have  felt  so  confident  of  its  failing  of  its  purpose  as 
she  did  when  Bobby  Trench  disclosed  his  views  on  life 
at  its  most  attractive.  It  amounted  to  the  same  exalta- 
tion of  "  a  good  time,"  but  it  sounded  different  from 
Lord  Sedbergh's  lips — fresher,  opening  up  vistas,  to  a 
country-bred  girl,  who  had  only  just  sipped  at  the 
delights  of  change,  and  was  in  the  first  flush  of  adven- 
turous youth.  The  inherent  tendency  of  such  a  life 
as  he  had  set  forth  to  lose  its  salience,  to  satisfy  no 
more  than  the  stay-at-home  life,  which  Joan  was  begin- 
ning to  find  so  dull,  could  hardly  be  known  to  her  at 
her  age.  It  held  of  itself  glamorous  possibilities,  of 
which  not  the  least  was  the  astonishing  change  viewed 
in  herself.  The  girl  who  was  liable  to  be  told  at  any 
moment  that  if  she  did  not  behave  herself  she  should 
be  sent  to  bed,  by  her  father,  was  the  same  girl  that 
her  father's  friend  thought  of  as  the  honoured  mistress 
of  a  household,  one  on  whom  gifts  were  to  be  showered, 
whose  society  was  to  be  courted,  whose  every  wish  was 
to  be  considered. 

If  only  Bobby  Trench  were  not  included  in  the  bright 
picture  !  And  yet  she  liked  him  now,  and  his  society  was 
never  irksome. 

"  You  are  awfully  kind  to  me,"  she  fluttered. 
"  But " 

"  Oh,   I   know,   my   dear,"   he   soothed  her.     "  You 


192  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

couldn't  possibly  give  me  any  answer  that  I  should  like 

to  have  now.     Only,  I  hope Well,  I  do  want  you 

for  Bobby,  my  little  Joan.  And  he's  very  fond  of  you, 
yoii  know.  It  has  made  a  different  man  of  him — er — 
wanting  you  as  he  does.  That's  the  effect  that  the 
right  sort  of  girl  ought  to  have  on  a  man.  Bobby  will 
make  a  good  husband,  if  he  does  get  the  right  sort  of 
girl ;  I'm  quite  sure  of  that.  She  would  be  able  to  do 
anything  with  him  that  she  liked;  make  anything  of 
him." 

This  was  flattery  of  a  searching  kind,  and  it  did  seem 
to  Joan  tha't  she  would  be  able  to  do  anything  she  liked 
with  Bobby  Trench.  As  for  Bobby  Trench's  father, 
she  would  have  liked  to  go  home  and  tell  Nancy  that  he 
was  the  sweetest  old  lamb  in  the  world.  He  had  healed 
to  some  extent  the  wound  caused  by  her  sad  discovery 
that  nobody  wanted  her,  caused  in  its  turn — although 
she  did  not  know  it — by  the  discovery  that  John  Spence 
didn't  want  her.  The  fact  that  Bobby  Trench  wanted 
her  didn't  count ;  that  Lord  Sedbergh  wanted  her,  did. 
Wonderful  things  were  happening  to  her  as  well  as  to 
Nancy,  and  if  Nancy  had  a  secret  to  hug,  so  had 
she. 

But  her  secret  did  not  support  her  long;  she  was 
made  of  stuff  too  tender.  A  few  hours  after  her  exalta- 
tion at  the  hands  of  Lord  Sedbergh  she  was  shedding 
lonely  tears  because  Nancy  had  been  so  unkind  to  her, 
having  coldly  repulsed  an  effort  to  draw  out  of  her  some 
admission  as  to  how  she  stood  with  regard  to  her  own 
now  plainly  confessed  lover. 


Proposals  193 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that — to  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  seem  to  have  affairs  of  your  own  to  attend  to,  and 
you  can  leave  mine  alone." 

Lord  Sedbergli  took  his  departure,  and  with  him 
went  much  of  the  glamour  that  he  had  thrown  over  the 
proposal  which  Joan  now  knew  must  come.  Bobby 
Trench,  undiluted,  pleased  her  less  than  before,  and  in 
a  house  full  of  people,  with  most  of  whom  he  had  been 
wont  to  make  common  merriment,  it  vexed  her  to  be 
constantly  left  with  him  in  a  solitude  of  two. 

There  was  an  air  of  expectancy  about  the  house.  It 
hovered  with  amused  gratification  over  John  Spence  and 
Nancy,  but  blew  more  coldly  watchful  upon  herself  and 
Bobby  Trench.  It  seemed  that  if  she  did  what  she 
bitterly  told  herself  was  expected  of  her,  she  would  not 
please  anybody  particularly,  except  Bobby  Trench  him- 
self. Even  her  father  seemed  to  watch  her  suspiciously, 
but  that  she  supposed  was  because  he  was  doubtful 
whether  naughtiness  would  not  prevail  in  her  after  all. 
As  for  her  mother,  she  invited  no  confidences.  Joan 
felt  more  and  more  alone,  and  more  and  more  dissatisfied 
with  herself  and  everybody  about  her.  Her  intercourse 
with  Bobby  Trench  was  less  evenly  amicable  than  it  had 
been,  for  she  felt  her  power  to  make  him  suffer  for 
some  of  her  moods.  But  he  did,  sometimes,  with  his 
unfailing  cheerfulness  lift  her  out  of  them,  and  she 
wavered  between  resentmcrt  against  him  for  being  the 
past  cause  of  her  present  troubles,  and  remorseful 
gratitude  for  his  unconquerable  fidelity. 

She  had  been  unusually  fractious  with  him  on  the 


194  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

afternoon  preceding  the  ball.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
she  could  not  go  to  it  herself,  being  out  of  sorts,  and 
confined  to  the  house  by  doctor's  orders.  The  house- 
party  was  on  the  ice  on  the  lake,  enjoying  itself  exceed- 
ingly. She  and  Bobby  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire 
in  the  morning-room. 

"  I  say,  you  seem  to  have  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong 
side  this  morning,"  he  said  with  a  conciliatory  grin. 
"  What  have  you  got  the  hump  about.?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Joan.  "  Everything  is  so 
dull,  and  everybody  is  so  horrid." 

"  You're  not  such  good  pals  with  Nancy  as  you  used 
to  be,  are  you?  "  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,"  she  said,  follow- 
ing her  mood  of  snappish  domination  over  him. 

His  reply  startled  her.  "  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
getting  fed  up  with  this.  I  seem  to  be  about  the  only 
person  in  the  house  who  takes  any  trouble  to  make 
themselves  agreeable  to  you,  and  I'm  the  only  person 
you  can't  treat  with  ordinary  politeness.  What's  the 
matter  ?     What  have  I  done  "^  " 

He  spoke  sharply,  as  he  had  not  spoken  before,  and 
his  words  brought  home  to  her  the  sad  state  of  isolation 
in  which  she  imagined  herself  to  be  living. 

"  I  know  perfectly  well  how  things  are  going,"  he 
went  on,  as  she  did  not  reply.  "  There's  going  to  be 
an  engagement  in  this  house  in  about  five  minutes,  and 
a  general  flare  up  of  congratulations  and  excitement 
all  round ;  and  you're  feeling  out  of  it.  I  can  under- 
stand that;  but  why  you  should  turn  round  upon  me, 


Proposals  195. 

when  I've  laid  myself  out  to  be  agreeable  to  you — and 
haven't  worried  you  either — I  don't  understand.  I  call 
it  devilish  unfair." 

Joan  felt  that  it  K-as  unfair.  It  was  true  that  he  had 
often  caused  her  to  forget  her  troubles;  and  it  was 
true  that  he  had  not  "  worried  "  her  for  days. 

"  I  am  rather  unhappy,  sometimes,  about  things  I 
don't  want  to  talk  about,"  she  said;  "  but  I'm  sorry  if 
I've  been  disagreeable.  I  won't  be  any  more.  Shall  we 
play  bezique? " 

"  No,  we  won't  play  bezique.  We'll  talk.  Look 
here,  you  know  quite  well  what  I  want  of  you.  I've 
been " 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that." 

"  Well,  I  do,  and  you've  got  to  listen  this  time.  I've 
been  playing  the  game  exactly  as  you  wanted  it  so  far, 
and  you  can't  refuse  to  give  me  my  innings." 

This  also  was  fair ;  and  as  love-making  was  apparently 
not  to  be  introduced  into  the  game,  Joan  sat  silent, 
looking  into  the  fire,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  and  a  flush 
on  her  cheeks. 

"  It's  pretty  plain,"  he  went  on,  "  that  I  haven't  got 
much  farther  with  you  in  the  way  I  should  like  to  have 
done.  You've  always  shown  you  didn't  want  me  to 
make  love  to  you,  and  I  haven't  bothered  you  much  in 
that  way ;  now  have  I?  " 

"  No,"  said  Joan.     "  And  I  shan't  listen  to  you  if 

you  do." 

"  All  right.  I'm  not  going  to.  But  there's  another 
way  of  looking  at  things.     We  do  get  on  well  together, 


196  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

and  you  do  like  me  a  bit  better  than  you  used  to,  don't 
you?     Now  answer  straight." 

"  I  don't  like  you  any  better  in  the  way  I  suppose 
you  want  me  to,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"  No,  it  isn't  what  I  mean.  I've  said  that.  I  mean, 
we  are  friends,  aren't  we?  If  I  were  to  go  away  to- 
morrow, and  you  were  never  to  see  anything  more  of  me, 
you  would  remember  me  as  a  friend,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  then,  look  here !  Can't  we  fix  it  up  together? 
No,  don't  say  anything  yet;  I  want  to  put  it  to  you. 
You're  having  a  pretty  dull  time  here,  and  you'll  have 
a  jolly  sight  duller  time  when  your  sister  gets  married 
and  goes  away.  But  we'll  give  you  the  time  of  your 
life.  My  old  governor  is  almost  as  much  in  love  with 
you  as  I  am,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal,  though  you 
won't  let  me  say  it.  He's  longing  to  have  you,  and 
there's  nothing  he  won't  do  for  us  in  the  way  of  setting 
us  up.  Look  here,  Joan,  I'll  do  every  mortal  thing  I 
can  to  make  you  happy ;  and  so  will  all  of  us.  You'll 
be  the  chief  performer  in  our  little  circus ;  and  it  won't 
be  such  a  little  one,  either.  We  can  give  you  anything, 
pretty  well,  that  anybody  could  want,  and  will  lay  our- 
selves out  to  do  it.  You  won't  find  me  such  a  bad  fellow 
to  live  with,  Joan.  We  are  pals,  you  know,  already; 
you've  said  so.     Can't  you  give  it  a  chance?  " 

Dispossessed  of  its  emotional  constituents,  the  pro- 
posal was  not  without  its  allure;  and,  so  dispossessed, 
could  be  faced,  or  at  least  glanced  at,  without  undue 
confusion  of  face. 


Proposals  197 

Joan  glanced  at  it,  and  said,  "  Lord  Sedbcrgh  is  very 
sweet  to  me." 

"  Well,  he's  sweet  on  you,  you  know,"  said  Bobby  with 
a  grin.  "  Do  say  yes,  Joan.  It'll  make  him  the  hap- 
piest man  in  the  world — except  me.  I  know  you  won't 
regret  it.  I  shan't  let  you.  I  shall  lay  myself  out  to 
do  exactly  what  you  want;  and  there's  such  a  lot  I 
can  do,  if  you'll  only  let  me.  For  one  thing,  you'd  be 
taken  out  of  everything  that's  bothering  you  now,  at  a 
stroke.  You'll  have  such  a  lot  of  attention  paid  to  you 
that  you'll  be  Hkely  to  get  your  head  turned;  but  I 
shan't  mind  that,  if  it's  turned  the  right  way.  Joan, 
let  my  old  Governor  and  me  show  what  we  can  do  to 
look  after  you  and  give  you  a  good  time." 

She  twisted  her  handkerchief  in  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
it's  awfully  good  of  you  both  to  want  me  so  much,"  she 
said ;  and  his  eyes  brightened,  because  hitherto  she  had 
shown  that  she  thought  it  anything  but  good  of  him 
to  want  her  so  much.  "But  how  can  I.^  I  don't  love 
you,  Bobby." 

She  said  it  almost  as  if  she  wished  she  did;  and  the 

childish  plaintiveness  in  her  voice  moved  him  deeply. 

His  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  replied,  still  in  the  same 

dispassionate  tone,  "  I  know  you  don't,  my  dear,  but 

I'll  put  up  with  that.       /  love  you;  and  that  rzill  have 

to  do  for  both  of  us." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.     "  That  would  be 

rather  a  one-sided  bargain,  wouldn't  it  r  " 

'•  /  don't  think  so.     It's  as  a  pal  I  should  want  you 

chiefly,  and  you  would  be  that.    You  are  already." 


198  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

She  looked  into  the  fire  again,  with  a  slight  frown 
on  her  face.  But  it  was  only  a  frown  of  indecision. 
How  should  she  have  known  enough  about  men  to  detect 
the  unreality  in  tlmt  plea.? 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak,  putting  strong  constraint 
on  himself. 

"  Oh,  I  can't,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  took  her  hand.  "  Joan,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  will 
you  marry  me?  I'll  wait  for  what  you  can't  give  me 
now,  and  never  worry  you  for  it.  Honour  bright,  I 
won't." 

She  let  her  hand  remain  in  his  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sprang  up.     "  Oh,  they're  coming  in,"  she  cried. 

He  swore  under  his  breath,  but  rose  too,  and  said,  as 
voices  were  heard  approaching,  "  Think  over  it,  and 
tell  me  to-morrow." 

Joan  lay  awake  for  a  long  time  that  night.  She  had 
gone  to  bed  when  the  others  had  driven  off  to  their  ball, 
about  nine  o'clock. 

She  was  offered  a  way  of  escape — she  did  not  examine 
herself  as  to  what  from.  Bobby  had  been  very  nice  to 
her — not  silly,  at  all.  Nobody  else  wanted  her,  Nancy 
least  of  all.  Very  likely  Nancy  was  even  now  being 
offered  her  escape ;  the  idea  had  got  about  that  John 
Spence  would  unbosom  himself  to  the  sound  of  the 
violins.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  talked  to  her 
mother,  but  had  not  had  an  opportunity.  When  she 
considered  what  she  should  say  to  her,  when  the  oppor- 
tunity came,  she  discovered  that  she  did  not  want  to 


Proposals  199 

say  anything.  If  she  had  been  able  to  tell  her  that  she 
loved  Bobby  Trench,  it  would  have  been  different.  No, 
she  did  not  love  him.  But  she  liked  him — very  much. 
And  she  liked  Lord  Sedbergh  even  more.  She  supposed 
she  loved  her  father,  in  fact  she  was  sure  she  did;  but 
Lord  Sedbergh  would  also  be  in  the  place  of  a  father 
to  her,  if  she  married  Bobby  Trench,  and  it  would  not 
be  wrong  to  love  him,  perhaps  rather  better.  He  would 
certainly  know  how  to  treat  her  better. 

Should  she — should  she  not? 

She  had  not  quite  made  up  her  mind  when  she  dropped 
off  to  sleep. 

She  was  awakened  by  Nancy  coming  into  the  room, 
with  Hannah,  both  of  them  speaking  softly.  She  pre- 
tended not  to  have  been  awakened,  but  through  her 
lashes  sought  for  signs  in  Nancy's  face. 

There  were  none,  except  that  she  seemed  unusually 
gay  for  that  time  of  the  morning,  made  soft  laughter 
with  Hannah,  and  dismissed  her  suddenly  before  she  had 
finished  undressing. 

When  Hannah  had  left  the  room*  Nancy  looked 
straight  at  Joan,  lying  with  her  face  turned  towards 
her.  Joan  shut  her  eyes,  and  did  not  see  the  expression 
with  which  she  looked  at  her.  When  she  opened  them 
again  Nancy  was  standing  by  the  fire,  looking  into  the 
embers ;  and  now  there  was  no  mistaking  the  look  on 
her  face.     It  was  tender  and  radiant. 

All  Joan's  soreness  was  wiped  out.  Nancy  was  very 
happy,  and  she  wanted  to  kiss  her  again  and  again, 
and  cry,  and  tell  her  how  much  she  loved  her.     She 


200  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

moved  in  her  bed,  coughed,  and  opened  her  eyes.  Nancy 
was  looking  at  her  with  a  face  from  which  the  radiance 
had  melted ;  she  left  the  fireplace  and  went  to  the  dress- 
ing-table. 

"  Hullo  !  "  she  said.     "  Are  you  feeling  better?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks,"  said  Joan,  choking  her  emotion. 
"  Have  you  enjoyed  yourself.?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  wish  you'd  been  there.  The  band 
was  ripping,  and  the  floor  was  perfect." 

She  talked  on  a  little  longer,  and  Joan  began  to  think 
nothing  had  happened  after  all.  Then  she  said  sud- 
denly, "By  the  by,  I'm  engaged  to  John  Spence.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

Joan  could  not  speak  for  the  moment.  Nancy  drew 
aside  the  curtain  and  looked  out.  "  It's  freezing  hard," 
she  said.  "  I  shall  wear  my  tweed  coat  and  skirt  to- 
morrow.    Well,  good-night !  " 

She  did  not  look  at  Joan  as  she  turned  away  from 
the  window,  but  blew  out  the  lights  and  got  into 
bed. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Both  girls  lay  perfectly 
still.  By  and  by  sounds  came  from  Joan's  pillow,  as 
if  she  were  crying  softly  and  trying  to  hide  it.  Nancy 
lay  quite  still,  and  the  sounds  ceased. 

There  was  another  long  silence. 

"  Nancy,  are  you  awake.?  "  came  in  a  voice  that  shook 
a  little. 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  m-most  awfully  glad." 

"  Then  what  are  you  crying  for?  " 


Proposals  201 

"  Because  I'm  sorry  I've  been  sucli  a  pig ;  and  I  d-do 
so  want  to  be  friends  again ;  and  you  won't." 

"  Oh,  I  will,  darling  old  Joan." 

Nancy  was  out  of  bed,  and  had  thrown  herself  on 
Joan's  neck.  They  were  mingling  tears  and  kisses  to- 
gether, Nancy  crying  quite  as  freely  as  Joan.  They 
lay  talking  together  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  fell 
asleep  in  one  another's  arms.  When  morning  came, 
Joan  had  the  happiest  waking  she  had  known  for  many 
months. 

That  afternoon  she  told  Bobby  Trench  that  she 
could  not  marry  him.  "  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "  I 
do  like  you,  Bobby,  and  I  hope  we  shall  always  be 
friends ;  but  I  don't  love  you  the  least  little  bit,  and 
I'm  quite  sure  now  that  one  ought  not  to  marry  anyone 
one  doesn't  love." 


BOOK   III 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   SQUIRE   CONFRONTED 

The  lilacs  in  the  station-yard  at  Kencote  were  blos- 
soming again.  Again  the  train  crawled  over  the  sun- 
dappled  meadows,  and  Joan  was  on  the  platform  to 
meet  it.     This  time  it  was  Humphrey  who  got  out  of  it. 

"  Hullo ! "  she  said  brightly.  "  They've  sent  the 
luo-o-ao-e-cart.     I  thouf^ht  you'd  like  to  walk." 

He  had  hardly  smiled  when  she  greeted  him,  and  now 
frowned.  "  I  wanted  to  see  the  Governor,"  he  said. 
"  However,  it  won't  take  long  to  walk.     Come  along." 

"  How's  Susan?"  Joan  asked  as  they  set  out. 

"  All  right,"  said  Humphrey  shortly.  "  She's  gone 
to  her  people." 

He  cleared  the  preoccupation  from  his  face,  and 
looked  at  his  sister.  "You  look  blooming,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  miss  Nancy?  " 

"  Yes,  awfully,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm  going  to  stay  with 
tliem  the  moment  they  get  back.  I  hear  from  her  every 
day.  They're  having  a  gorgeous  time.  They  are 
o'oina:  to  take  me  abroad  with  them  next  year.  I  shall 
love  it." 

'•  I've  got  a  piece  of  news  for  you,"  said  Humphrey 
after  a  pause.  "  Bobby  Trench  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

A  flush  crept  over  her  face  and  died  away  again  be- 

205 


206  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

fore  she  said,  "That's  rather  sudden,  isn't  it?  Who  is 
he  going  to  marry?  " 

"  Lady  Bertha  Willersley.  Can't  say  I  admire  his 
taste  much.  She's  amusing  enough  for  a  time,  but  I 
should  think  she'd  tire  you  to  death  if  you  had  too  much 
of  her.  She  can't  be  much  younger  than  he  is,  either. 
She's  been  about  almost  ever  since  I  can  remember." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Joan,  with  an  embarrassed  laugh, 
"  it  shows  I  was  right." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  it  doesn't,"  Humphrey  admitted. 
"  Bobby  has  always  been  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  like  him 
well  enough ;  but  he  is  rather  a  rotter.  I  think  you're 
pretty  well  out  of  it,  Joan." 

"  I'm  sure  I  am,"  she  said.  "  But  you  didn't  say  so 
at  the  time." 

"  Poor  old  girl,"  he  said.  "  We  gave  you  rather  a 
bad  time,  didn't  we?  But  you  did  lead  him  on  a  bit, 
didn't  you?" 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Joan  indignantly.  "  I  always  said  I 
wouldn't  have  him." 

"  Well,  he  told  me  himself  that  you  would  have  said 
'  yes  '  one  evening  if  somebody  hadn't  come  in." 

She  was  silent. 

"  It's  true  then?  "  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  her. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  might  have  done,  but  I  should 
have  been  very  sorry  for  it  afterwards." 

"  You'd  have  had  a  topping  good  time." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  what  tempted  me,  just  a  little. 
But  it  would  be  horrid  to  marry  for  that." 

"  What  made  you  change  ?     He  was  most  awfully  in 


The  Squire  Confronted  207 

love  with  you,  to  do  him  justice,  though  he  seems  to 
have  got  over  it  pretty  quickly." 

"  Yes,  he  did  seem  to  be.  But  it  shows  how  little  it 
was  worth.  It  wasn't  the  sort  of  way  John  was  in  love 
with  Nancy." 

"  It  was  when  Nancy  fixed  up  her  little  affair  that 
you  sent  Bobby  about  his  business." 

"  Yes.  Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  I'm  sick 
of  Bobby  Trench." 

"  Governor  been  at  you  about  him.?  " 

"  He  has  never  forgiven  me.  Perhaps  he  will  now. 
But  I  know  mother  was  glad,  so  I  don't  much  care." 

"  How  is  the  Governor  .^^  "  asked  Humphrey,  rather 
gloomily.     "  Fairly  amiable  ^  " 

"  Fairly.  I  think  he  misses  Nancy ;  but  of  course  he 
is  glad  she  married  John.     He  is  so  well  off." 

Humphrey  took  no  notice  of  this  shaft.  He  hardly 
spoke  again  until  they  reached  the  house,  when  he  went 
straight  into  his  father's  room. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire.  "  What  good  wind 
blows  you  here.''  I  thought  you  were  moving  down  to 
Hampshire  this  week." 

"  The  house  isn't  quite  ready  yet.  Susan  has  gone  to 
her  people.  I  thought  I'd  run  down.  And — I've  got 
something  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"  Yes,  well !  "  The  Squire  was  a  little  suspicious. 
He  didn't  want  to  part  with  any  money  for  the  moment. 

"  What  have  you  decided  about  Gotch  ?  Clark  is 
leaving  us,  and  wants  things  settled.  She  doesn't  want 
to  find  another  place.     She  wants  to  get  married." 


208  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Well,  then,  let  her  get  married,"  said  the  Squire, 
with  some  show  of  heat.  "  It's  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
Let  Gotch  marry  her,  and  find  a  place  to  take  her  to, 
if  he  can.  I've  no  room  for  another  married  keeper 
here,  as  I've  filled  up  the  place  that  Mr.  Gotch  saw  fit 
to  refuse." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Humphrey.  "  But  look  here, 
father,  can't  you  forget  that  now,  and  do  what  he 
wants?  He  did  me  a  jolly  good  turn,  you  know.  I 
might  have  been  killed,  or  injured  for  life,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  him." 

"  I  know  all  that,  and  I  was  ready  to  make  him  the 
most  handsome  reward  for  what  he  did.  He  saw  fit  to 
refuse  it,  as  I  think  in  the  most  ungrateful  way,  and 
there's  an  end.  I  kept  the  offer  open  for  a  month.  I 
did  everything  that  could  be  expected  of  me,  and  a 
good  deal  more.  I've  v/ashed  my  hands  of  Mr.  Gotch 
altogether." 

"  I  don't  think  he's  ungrateful.  But  he  has  this 
exceptionally  good  offer  in  Canada,  if  he  can  put  down 
a  few  hundred  pounds,  and " 

"  Then  let  him  put  down  his  few  hundred  pounds. 
I've  no  objection." 

"  He  hasn't  got  it,  you  know,"  said  Humphrey,  with 
weary  patience.  "  He  and  Clark  have  both  got  a  bit, 
but  not  enough,  and  I  can't  do  anything  for  them  at 
the  moment.  Denny  Croft  has  cost  a  lot  more  than  I 
thought  it  would  to  put  right,  and  I  haven't  got  a  bob 
to  spare." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Humphrey.     I'm  not  going  to  do 


The  Squire  Confronted  209 

it,  and  that's  Hat.  Apart  altogether  from  the  fact 
that  I  don't  think  Gotch  has  behaved  well,  and  I  feel 
myself  relieved  of  all  obligation  to  him  now,  I  object 
to  this  emptying  of  the  country  that's  going  on.  As 
long  as  there  are  places  in  England  for  men  like  Gotch, 
I  say  it's  their  duty  to  stay  by  the  old  country.  Sup- 
posing every  keeper  and  farm-hand  and  so  on  on  this 
place  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  off  to  Canada,  where 
should  we  be,  I  should  like  to  know?  It's  the  duty  of 
the  people  on  the  land  to  stick  together,  or  the  whole 
basis  of  society  goes.  /  stick  here  and  do  my  duty  in 
my  sphere ;  I  don't  want  to  go  rushing  off  to  Canada ; 
and  I  expect  others  in  their  sphere  to  do  the  same.  It's 
quite  certain  I'm  not  going  to  put  down  money  to  help 
them  to  run  away  from  their  duty.  So  let's  have  no 
more  talk  about  it." 

Humphrey  did  not  seem  to  have  been  listening  very 
closely  to  this  speech.     He  did  not  reply  to  it. 

"  Something  very  disagreeable  has  happened,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  want  to  tell  3^ou  the  details  of  it.  But  it  is 
important  that  Clark  should  be  got  out  of  the  country 
as  soon  as  possible." 

The  Squire  stared  at  him,  and  marked  for  the  first 
time  his  serious  face.  "  What  do  you  mean  .f'"  he  asked. 
"  Wliat  has  happened.'^  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  more  than  this,  that  Clark 
has  it  in  her  power  to  make  mischief.  I  hope  you  won't 
ask  any  more,  but  will  take  my  word  for  it ;  it's  very 
serious  mischief.  It's  she  who  wants  to  go  to  Canada. 
I  think  if  Gotch  had  been  left  to  himself  he  would  have 


210  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

accepted  your  offer ;  and  I  know  he  is  upset  at  the  way 
you  have  taken  his  refusal.  Do,  for  God's  sake,  let  him 
have  what  he  wants,  and  take  her  off,  or  I  don't  know 
what  won't  happen." 

His  ordinary  level  speech  had  become  agitated,  but 
he  returned  to  himself  again  as  he  said  quietly,  "  I've 
said  more  than  I  meant  to.  Take  it  from  me  that  I'm 
not  exaggerating,  and  do  what  I  ask,  for  your  own  sake 
as  well  as  mine." 

A  stormy  gleam  of  light  had  broken  over  the  Squire's 
puzzled  features.  "  Do  3^ou  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're 
in  disgrace — with  this  woman  ?  "  he  asked. 

Humphrey  looked  at  him,  and  then  laughed,  without 
amusement.  "  Oh,  it's  nothing  like  that,"  he  said. 
"But  disgrace — yes.  It  will  amount  to  that  for  all 
of  us.  Mud  will  stick,  and  she's  prepared  to  throw  it. 
She  has  said  nothing  to  Gotch,  and  has  promised  not  to. 
She'll  say  nothing  to  anybody,  if  we  lend  Gotch  the 
money.  That's  all  he  wants,  you  know.  He'll  pay  it 
back  when  he's  made  his  way.  We  must  lend  him  three 
hundred  pounds.  He's  a  steady  man  and  safe.  I'd 
give  it  him,  if  I  had  it.  It's  the  greatest  luck  in  the 
world  that  we  can  close  her  mouth  in  that  way.  Oh, 
you  must  do  it,  father." 

He  had  become  agitated  again ;  and  it  was  the  rarest 
thing  for  him  to  show  agitation. 

The  Squire  was  impressed.  "  I  don't  say  I  won't,"  he 
said ;  "  but  you  must  show  me  some  cause,  Humphrey. 
I  don't  understand  it  yet.  And  anyhow,  I'm  not  going 
to  pay  blackmail,  you  know.     What's  the  story  this 


The  Squire  Confronted  211 

woman  1ms   got   hold   of — if  you've  done   nothing,   as 
you  say  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  done  nothing.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you 
her  story,  father ;  and  it  will  do  you  no  good  to  hear  it. 
Besides,  it  simply  must  be  kept  from  getting  out.  You 
tell  a  thing  in  confidence  to  one  person,  and  they  tell 
it  in  confidence  to  another;  and  it's  public  property 
and  the  mischief  done  before  you  know  where  you  are." 
"  I  shan't  tell  a  soul." 

"  Can't  you  just  trust  me,  and  think  no  more  about 
it.?" 

"  No,  I  can't,  Humphrey.  You  must  tell  me  what 
it's  all  about.     I  can't  act  in  the  dark." 

Humphrey  sat  silent,  looking  on  the  ground,  while 
the  Squire,  with  a  troubled  look  on  his  face,  waited  for 
him  to  speak. 

He  looked  up.  "  Will  you  promise  me  definitely 
that  you'll  keep  it  absolutely  to  yourself?"  he  asked. 
"  Mother  mustn't  know,  or  Dick,  or  anybody." 

"  Why  not.?  Neither  of  them  would  breathe  a  word." 
"  I  won't  tell  it  to  more  than  one  person.  If  you 
won't  promise  to  keep  it  sacred  and  give  nobody  a  hint 
that  might  put  them  on  the  scent,  I'll  tell  somebody 
else.  I  must  tell  somebody,  and  get  advice,  as  well  as 
money." 

"  I  don't  keep  things  from  Dick,"  said  the  Squire 
slowly,  "  and  very  seldom  from  your  mother.  I'm  not  a 
man  who  likes  hugging  a  secret.  If  I  give  you  this 
promise  it  will  be  a  weight  on  me.  But  I'll  do  it  if 
you  assure  me  that  there  is  some  special  reason  whj 


212  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

neither  of  those  two  shall  be  told.  I  think  they  ought 
to  be,  if  it's  a  question  of  disgrace,  and  a  way  of  avert- 
ing it.  I  shouldn't  like  to  trust  myself  to  give  you  the 
right  advice,  without  consulting  them — or  at  any  rate, 
Dick." 

Humphrey  considered  again.  "  No,  I  won't  risk  it," 
he  said.  "  Yes ;  there  is  a  special  reason.  It  is  not  to 
be  a  matter  of  consultation,  except  between  you  and 
me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Squire  unwillingly,  "  I  will  tell 
nobody." 

"  Not  even  if  they  see  something  is  wrong,  and  press 
you  ?  " 

"  You  have  my  word,  Humphrey,"  said  the  Squire 
simply. 

Humphrey  wrung  his  hands  together  nervously. 
"  Oh,  it's  a  miserable  story,"  he  said.  "  Clark  accuses 
Susan  of  stealing  that  necklace  from  Brummels." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  horrified. 

"  She's  prepared  to  swear  to  it,  and  says  she  will  go 
and  lay  information,  unless  we  do  what  they  w^ant — 
help  Gotch  to  settle  in  Canada." 

The  Squire  sprang  from  his  seat  and  strode  the  length 
of  the  room.  His  face  was  terrific  as  he  turned  and 
stood  before  Humphrey.  "  But  that's  the  most  scan- 
dalous case  of  blackmail  I  ever  heard  of,"  he  said. 
"  You  mean  to  say  you  are  prepared  to  give  in  to  that ! 
And  expect  me  to  help  you !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  asking  such  a  thing,  Humphrey.  And  to  extract 
a  promise  from  me  to  keep  that  to  myself !     What  can 


The  Squire  Confronted  213 

you  be  tliiiiking  of?  I've  not  much  difficulty  in  advis- 
ing you  if  that's  the  sort  of  trouble  you're  in.  Send 
for  a  policeman,  and  have  the  woman  locked  up  at  once. 
The  brazen  insolence  of  it!  Let  the  whole  world  know 
of  it,  if  they  want  to,  I  say.  Your  honour  can't  stand 
much  if  that  sort  of  mud  is  going  to  stain  it.  It's  your 
positive  duty.  I  can't  think  what  you  can  have  been 
thinking  of  not  to  do  it  at  once.  To  give  in  to  the 
woman!  Why,  it's  shameful,  Humphrey!  Disgrace! 
That's  where  the  disgrace  is." 

Humphrey  had  sat  silent  under  this  exordium,  his 
head  bent  and  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  He  said  no 
word  when  his  father  had  finished. 

A  half-frightened  look  came  over  the  Squire's  face. 
"  You've  allowed  this  woman  to  impose  upon  you,"  he 
said  in  a  quieter  voice.  "  You've  lost  your  head,  my 
boy.  Take  hold  of  yourself,  and  fling  the  lie  back  in 
her  face.     Punish  her  for  it." 

There  was  another  pause  before  Humphrey  said, 
raising  his  head,  but  not  his  eyes :  "  It  isn't  a  lie.  It's 
the  truth.     Oh,  my  God !  " 

His  frame  was  shaken  by  a  great  sob.  He  leant 
forward  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  Squire  sat  down  heavily  in  his  chair.  He  picked 
up  a  paper-knife  from  the  writing-table  and  balanced 
it  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  his  face  was  devoid  of 
all  expression.  Then  he  turned  round  to  his  son  and 
said  in  a  firm  voice:  "You  say  Susan  did  steal  them.? 
Are  you  sure  of  that.?  Joan  as  good  as  saw  that  Mrs. 
Amberley  take  them.     Yes,  and  it  was  proved  that  she 


214  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

sold  them,  at  her  trial !  Aren't  you  allowing  this  woman 
to  bluff  you,  Humphrey?  " 

His  voice  had  taken  a  note  of  confidence.  Humphrey 
sat  up,  his  face  white  and  hard. 

"  Mrs.  Amberley's  selling  pearls  was  a  coincidence — 
unlucky  for  her,"  he  said.  "  We  know  where  she  got 
them  from.  The  story  they  wouldn't  listen  to  was 
true." 

"  But  Joan ! — seeing  her  at  the  very  cupboard 
itself!" 

"  She  may  have  wanted  to  steal  them.  She  did  steal 
the  diamond  star." 

The  Squire  drooped.  "  Still,  it  may  be  bluff,"  he 
said  weakly.     "  How  did  Clark  know  of  it?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  turn  the  knife  round,  father,"  said  Hum- 
phrey. "  It  isn't  Clark ;  it's  Susan.  She  told  me  her- 
self." 

"  She  told  you  she  was  a  thief !  "  The  Squire's  voice 
had  changed,  and  was  harder. 

"  Yes.  It's  a  wretched  story.  Don't  make  it  harder 
for  me  to  tell." 

The  control  in  which  he  had  held  himself,  coming 
down  in  the  train,  walking  from  the  station  with  Joan, 
and  first  addressing  his  father,  was  gone.  He  spoke  as 
if  he  were  broken,  but  in  a  hard,  monotonous  voice. 

The  Squire's  face  softened.  "  Go  on,  my  boy,"  he 
said.  "  Tell  me  everything.  I'll  help  you  if  I 
can."  < 

"  I  taxed  her  with  it.  She's  frightened  to  death.  I 
could  only  get  at  it  by  degrees ;  and  there  are  some 


The  Squire  Confronted  215 

things  I  don't  understand  now.  I  shall  clear  them  up 
when  she's  better.  She's  ill  now,  and  I  don't  wonder 
at  it." 

"Where  is  she.?" 

"  With  her  mother.  She  doesn't  know  anything.  She 
thinks  we've  had  a  row." 

"  Well,  tell  me." 

"  I  was  a  fool  not  to  suspect  what  was  going  on. 
She  was  head  over  ears  in  debt.  What  she  must  have 
been  spending  on  clothes  it  frightens  me  to  think  of. 
She  told  me  that  she  had  got  somebody  to  make  them 
for  almost  nothing,  but  I  might  have  known  that  was 
nonsense,  if  I'd  thought  about  it  at  all.  I  remember 
now  some  woman  or  other  laughing  at  me  when  I  told 
her  she  dressed  herself  on  two  hundred  a  year.  '  I 
suppose  you  mean  two  thousand,'  she  said,  and  I  should 
think  it  couldn't  have  been  much  less  than  that.  She 
had  things  put  away  that  I'd  never  seen.  She  didn't 
disclose  half  what  she  owed  when  you  helped  us  two 
years  ago.  Then  she'd  been  playing  Bridge  with  a  lot 
of  harpies — Auction — ^at  sixpenny  points — and  she's  no 
more  head  for  it  than  an  infant  in  arms." 

"  Sixpenny  points  1 "  repeated  the  Squire. 

"  Well,  it  means  she  could  easily  lose  forty  or  fifty 
pounds  in  an  afternoon,  and  probably  did,  often  enough. 
She  had  to  find  ready  money  for  that.  I  haven't  got  at 
it  all  yet,  but  when  we  went  down  to  Brummels  she 
didn't  know  which  way  to  turn,  and  was  desperate — 

ready  to  do  anything.     I  know  there  was  a No, 

I    can't    tell   you    that;    and    it    doesn't   matter.     I'm 


216  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

not  sure  it  Isn't  as  well  for  her,  and  for  me,  that  she 
did  get  the  money  in  the  way  she  did." 

The  Squire's  face  was  very  grave.  "  You  know, 
Humphrey,  if  she  has  deceived  you,  and  is  capable  of 
this  horrible  theft,  you  ought  to  satisfy  yourself " 

Humphrey  broke  down  again,  but  recovered  himself 
quickly.  "  Thank  God,  I  know  everything,"  he  said. 
"  Everything  that  matters.  She  was  terrified.  She 
turned  to  me.  There's  nothing  between  us.  It's  all 
partly  my  fault.  I'd  been  in  debt  myself,  and  hadn't 
helped  her  to  keep  straight.  And  we'd  had  rows,  and 
she  was  afraid  to  tell  me  things." 

"  Go  on,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  Squire  very  kindly. 

"  It's  soon  told.  She  heard  Lady  Sedbergh  and 
Mrs.  Amberley  talking  about  the  hiding-place." 

"  Was  she  in  the  room  ?  " 

"  She  was  just  outside.     The  door  was  open." 

"  She  listened?  " 

"  Yes.  She  stayed  outside,  and  listened.  They  went 
out  by  another  door,  and  she  went  into  the  room  at 
once  and  took  the  necklace.  She  pawned  pearls  here 
and  there,  going  out  in  the  evening,  veiled,  but  in  a 
foolish,  reckless  way.  I  can't  conceive  why  something 
didn't  come  out  at  the  trial.  It  was  she  who  gave  Rachel 
Amberley's  name  at  that  place  in  the  city.  She's  about 
the  same  height.  But  imagine  the  folly  of  it !  She 
says  that  it  '  came  over  her  '  to  do  it,  and  she  only  did 
it  that  once.  She  seems  to  have  made  up  names  at  the 
other  places." 

"  Did  she  get  rid  of  all  the  pearls  ?  " 


Tlie  Squire  Confronted  217 

"  That's  what  I  can't  make  out  yet.  She  got  enough 
money  to  pay  up  everything;  but  not  more.  She  can't 
say  how  much,  but  it  can't  possibly  have  been  what  the 
pearls  were  worth.  Perhaps  she  let  some  of  them  go  at 
an  absurd  value,  which  would  be  a  reason  for  those 
who  had  got  them  to  lie  low.  I  couldn't  get  at  every- 
thino' ;   there  was   so   much   that  I  had   to   ask  about ; 

and  she  wasn't   in   a   state Oh,   she'd   have   been 

capable  of  any  folly — even  throwing  some  of  them  away, 
if  she  got  frightened.  We've  been  dancing  on  gun- 
powder. Clark  knew  all  along;  or  almost  from  the 
first." 

"  Did  she  help  her.?  " 

"  Oh  no.  She  was  fond  of  her ;  she  was  the  daughter 
of  one  of  their  gardeners." 

"Are  you  sure  she  didn't  help  her.?  What  do  you 
mean — she  was  fond  of  her?  " 

"  I  mean  that  she  might  have  given  her  away." 

"  She  knew  at  the  time  of  the  trial.?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  she  threaten  Susan,  then.?  " 

"  No.  I  think  she  never  meant  to  do  anything  at  all. 
Susan  had  given  her  a  lot  of  things.  She  was  in  with 
her  to  that  extent — knew  about  her  dressmaking  bills. 
And  she  wanted  to  marry  Gotch,  and  Gotch  is  loyal  to 
us.  She  didn't  want  to  make  trouble.  It  was  only 
Gotch  being  kept  hanging  on  about  Canada  that  put 
it  into  her  head  that  she  had  a  weapon." 

"  But  you  say  she  threatened  you.  She  must  be  a 
bad  woman." 


218  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Well,  I  put  her  back  up.  She  came  to  me  and 
said  she  wanted  something  done  at  once,  and  hinted  that 
she  knew  things.  I  was  angry  at  being  pressed  in  that 
way,  and  made  her  speak  out.  I  believe,  at  first,  she 
thought  I  was  in  it ;  or  she  wouldn't  have  come  to  me 
in  the  way  she  did.  I  soon  disabused  her  of  that  idea, 
if  she  really  held  it,  and  I  was  furious.  I  thought  it 
was  blackmail,  as  you  did.  I  threatened  to  have  her 
up.  That  scandalised  her,  and  she  convinced  me  that 
she  was  telling  the  truth.  She  told  me  to  go  and  ask 
Susan,  if  I  didn't  believe  her.  It  was  then,  when  she 
had  burnt  her  boats,  that  she  threatened." 

"  Well — however  you  look  at  it — it  is  blackmail. 
She's  ready  to  compound  a  felony.  And  we  are  asked 
to  do  the  same.  Humphrey,  this  is  a  terrible  story. 
It's  the  blackest  day  I've  ever  known.  I  don't  think 
I've  quite  taken  it  all  in  yet.  Susan  a  thief !  All  that 
we've  said  and  thought  about  that  other  woman — and 
justly  too,  if  she'd  been  guilty — applies  to — to  one  of 
ourselves — to  a  Clinton.  I  feel  stunned  by  it.  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  or  do." 

His  face  was  grey.  His  very  tranquillity  showed  how 
deeply  he  had  been  hit. 

"  What  we  have  to  do,"  said  Humphrey,  "  is  to  avert 
the  disgrace  to  our  name.  Fortunately  that  can  be 
done.  It  isn't  blackmail ;  Clark  never  thought  of  it 
in  that  light,  or  she  would  have  moved  long  ago.  She 
thought  w^e  were  not  treating  Gotch  well  in  refusing 
him  what  he  asked,  after  what  he  had  done,  and  the 
promises  we  had  made  him.     He''ll  never  know  anything 


The  Squire  Confronted  219 

about  it.  Have  him  in  and  tell  him  that  you  will  lend 
him  the  money  he  wants.  That  cuts  the  whole  horrible 
knot." 

The  Squire  made  no  answer  to  this.  "  She  is  more 
guilty  than  the  other  woman,"  he  went  on,  as  if  Hum- 
phrey had  not  spoken.  "  She  stood  by  and  saw  an 
innocent  woman  suffer.     Humphrey,  it  was  very  base." 

"  Mrs.  Amberley  wasn't  innocent,"  said  Humphrey. 
"  She  went  to  steal  the  necklace,  and  found  it  gone. 
She  did  steal  the  star,  and  that  was  what  she  was 
punished  for.  Her  punishment  was  deserved.  Besides, 
it's  over  now.  You  know  that  she  was  let  out.  She 
has  gone  to  America.  We  shall  never  hear  of  her  over 
here  again." 

"  It's  a  very  terrible  story,"  said  the  Squire  again. 
"  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done.     I'm  all  at  sea.     I 

must Humphrey,  why  did  you  make  me  promise 

to  keep  this  a  secret  .^^  Dick  ought  to  be  told.  He's 
got  a  cooler  head  than  I  have." 

"  Dick  shall  not  be  told,"  said  Humphrey,  almost  with 
violence.  "  Nor  anyone  else.  We've  got  to  settle  this 
between  ourselves.  Nobody  must  suspect  anything,  and 
nobody  must  be  put  in  the  position  of  treating  Susan 
so  that  others  will  be  tempted  to  talk  about  it.  If  she 
came  down  here,  and  there  were  two  besides  you — and 
me — who  knew  what  she  had  done,  it  would  be  an  im- 
possible position.  I've  made  up  my  mind  absolutely 
about  that,  and  you  gave  me  your  word." 

"  Susan  down  here !  "  repeated  the  Squire,  in  a  tone 
that  made  Humphrey  wince. 


220  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  You  won't  be  asked  to  have  more  to  do  with  her 
than  is  necessary  to  keep  away  all  suspicion,"  he  said. 
"  It  isn't  Susan  you  have  to  think  of — that's  my  busi- 
ness— it's  yourself,  and  the  whole  lot  of  us.  The  scandal 
doesn't  bear  thinking  of  if  it  comes  out.  Think  what  it 
would  mean.  Think  of  all  you  said  yourself  about 
Mrs.  Amberley.  Think  of  the  whole  country  saying 
that  about  one  of  us ;  and  saying  much  more,  because 
of  what  you  said — of  her  keeping  quiet  about  it.  Oh, 
I'm  not  trying  to  defend  her — but  think  of  the  ghastly 
disgrace.  We  should  never  hold  up  our  heads  again. 
Think  of  the  dock  for  her — and  prison !  Father,  you 
must  put  an  end  to  it.  Thank  God  it  can  be  done, 
without  touching  your  honour." 

The  knife  had  gone  right  home.  The  Squire  sprang 
up  from  his  chair  and  strode  down  the  room  again. 
"  My  honour ! "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  Humphrey,  what 
honour  is  left  to  us  after  this?  " 

"  Susan  is  sorry,"  Humphrey  went  on  quickly. 
"  Bitterly  sorry.  She  has  been  quite  different  lately. 
She  had  a  terrible  shock.  She  is  spending  next  to 
nothing  now,  and " 

"  Oh !  "  The  Squire  glared  at  him,  looking  more 
like  himself  than  he  had  done  since  Humphrey's  dis- 
closure. "  She  paid  her  debts  out  of  stolen  money. 
Yes,  she  was  different,  when  she  thought  the  danger  had 
been  removed,  and  that  other  woman  was  safe  in  prison. 
She  was  gay  and  light-hearted  when  she  came  here  at 
Christmas,  with  that — that  crime  on  her  conscience. 
You  say  that  as  if  it  was  to  her  credit !  " 


The  Squire  Confronted  221 

"  I  don't !  "  said  Humphrey  sullenly.  "  But  she  is 
sorry  now.  She's  punished.  It  isn't  for  us  to  punish 
her  again ;  and  punish  ourselves.  It's  too  ghastly  to 
think  about.  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  going  on  talking 
about  it,  father,  while  the  risk  is  still  hanging  over 
us.?  Let  me  send  a  wire  to  Clark;  or  let  Gotch  do  it, 
this  evening.  Then  we  can  breathe  freely,  and  talk 
about  all  the  rest  later." 

The  Squire  took  another  turn  down  the  room.  "  I 
won't  be  hurried  into  anything,"  he  said  with  some 
indignation.  "  I  won't  think  of  what  may  happen  until 
I've  made  up  my  mind,  in  case  I  should  do  something 
wrong,  out  of  fear.  Oh,  why  can't  you  let  me  call  in 
Dick.?" 

"  I  won't.  And  you've  got  to  think  of  what  will 
happen.  The  name  of  Clinton  horribly  disgraced — held 
up  to  the  most  public  scorn — not  a  corner  to  hide  your- 
self in.  It  will  last  all  your  lifetime,  and  mine  too,  and 
go  on  to  your  grandchildren.  You  will  never  know 
another  happy  moment.  The  stain  will  never  come 
out ;  it  will  stick  to  every  one  of  us." 

"Oh,  that's  enough,"  said  the  Squire,  seating  him- 
self again. 

He  turned  sharply  round  again.  "  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  "  he  asked  angrily. 

"  Send  for  Gotch — send  for  him  now  this  moment — 
and  tell  him  that  you  have  changed  your  mind.  You 
will  arrange  to  let  him  have  the  money  he  has  asked 
for,  and  he  can  go  off  as  soon  as  he  likes." 

"  I'm  to  say  I've  changed  my  mind.?  " 


222  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Yes,  of  course.     You  don't  want  to  set  him  wcnder- 


'5 


ing. 

"  Then   he   will   let   this   woman,    Clark,   know " 

He  began  to  speak  more  slowly. 

"  Yes.  I  shall  go  back  to-morrow  morning  and  see 
her.  I  shall  have  a  hold  over  her,  and  she  will  cer- 
tainly keep  quiet,  for  her  own  sake." 

"  She  will  be  liable  to  prosecution  if  the  truth  be- 
comes known  from  any  other  source." 

"  It  won't  be.  She  is  the  only  person  who  knows 
anything." 

"  And  /  shall  have  compounded  a  felony  too,  if  it 
becomes  known." 

"  No.  That  isn't  so.  You  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  her  at  all.     You  will  never  see  her." 

"  That's  true.  But  she  will  know  why  I  pay  this 
money." 

"  Not  necessarily.  No,  she  needn't  know.  I  shall 
tell  her  I  persuaded  you.  She  doesn't  know  you  were 
so  definitely  against  it.  She  thinks  it  was  just  hanging 
fire." 

The  Squire  rose  from  his  seat,  and  went  to  the  empty 
fireplace,  where  he  took  his  stand,  facing  his  son. 

He  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  said  in  a  quiet  but 
firm  voice,  "  I  won't  do  it,  Humphrey." 


CHAPTER    II 


A   VERY    PRESENT    HELP 


Virginia  among  her  flowers,  in  the  sweet,  old-fashioned 
retired  garden  of  the  Dower  House  was  a  sight  to 
refresh  the  eyes.  She  was  gathering  a  sheaf  of  long- 
stalked  May-flowering  tulips  as  Humphrey  pushed  open 
the  gate  leading  from  the  park,  and  came  in. 

He  was  not  able  to  keep  all  signs  of  the  terrible  blow 
that  had  been  dealt  him,  and  the  disappointment  that 
had  come  of  the  appeal  he  had  just  made  to  his  father, 
from  showing  on  his  face ;  but  he  had  schooled  himself, 
walking  across  the  park,  to  a  natural  bearing.  He  had 
to  make  another  effort  to  avert  such  ruin  and  disgrace 
as  would  overwhelm  him  utterly,  and  make  the  rest  of 
his  life  a  burden  and  a  reproach. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  tall  elms  that  bordered 

the  garden  of  the  Dower  House.     The  rooks  were  busy 

with  their  evening  conference.     The  westward  windows 

of  the   ancient,   mellowed   house   were   shining.     Peace 

and   hope    sat   brooding   on   the   fair,   home-enchanted 

place,  and  a  lump  sprang  up  in  Humphrey's  throat  as 

he  came  upon  it,  and  saw  his  brother's  wife,  so  sweet 

and   gracious,    protected   here    and    shut   in    from    the 

ugliness   of  life,   and   quietly  happy   in   her   seclusion. 

The  contrast  between  Virginia  in  her  garden,  and  the 

desperate   wreck    of    his    own    married    life,    was    too 

223 


224  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

poignant.  He  turned  round  to  shut  the  door  in  the 
wall,  but  by  the  time  she  had  looked  up  and  seen  him  he 
had  hardened  himself  against  emotion. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  pleasure.  "  Why,  Hum- 
phre}^ !  "  she  said,  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  here.  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  am  all  alone.  Dick  has  gone 
up  to  dine  and  sleep  in  London." 

The  disappointment  was  so  keen  that  his  taut- 
stretched  nerves  gave  way  for  a  moment,  and  he  felt 
physically  ill. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  "^  "  she  said.  "  Is  there 
any  bad  news.^^     You  look  dreadful,  Humphrey." 

He  forced  a  laugh.  "  I'm  not  very  fit,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  had  made  sure  of  seeing  Dick,  about  something 
rather  important.     When  will  he  be  back.^^" 

"  To  morrow  afternoon.  But  isn't  there  anything 
that  I  can  do?  Do  tell  me,  Humphrey.  Dick  has  no 
secrets  from  me,  you  know." 

He  was  afraid  to  make  any  mystery.  "  Oh,  it's  only 
about  the  keeper,  Gotch,"  he  said  at  once.  "  Clark  is 
leaving  us,  and  they  want  to  get  married.  They  have 
both  set  their  hearts  on  going  to  Canada,  and  I  came 
down  to  see  if  I  could  get  the  Governor  to  consent 
to  helping  them.  But  he  won't  do  it,  and  I  was  going 
to  ask  Dick  if  he  could  possibly  raise  the  money." 

"  Oh,  but,  Humphrey — easily — if  it  isn't  too  much. 
What  do  they  want?" 

"  Three  hundred  pounds — only  as  a  loan.  He  would 
pay  it  back  after  the  first  year — in  instalments — when 
he  had  got  himself  settled.     He  has  a  fine  opportunity 


A  Very  Present  Help  225 

waiting  for  him  over  there.  He  ouglit  not  to  miss  it. 
I  do  feel  that  I  owe  him  a  lot.  That  scoundrel  would 
have  battered  me  to  death,  very  likely,  if  he  hadn't 
come  on  the  scene.  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could  give 
him  the  money  myself.  I  could  raise  it,  but  it  would 
take  time.  I  want  to  go  back  to-morrow  and  tell  Clark 
that  it  is  all  settled." 

"  Oh,  you  shall,  Humphrey.  Let  me  do  it  for  you. 
I  have  heaps  of  money  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with.  Dick  won't  let  me  spend  a  penny  on  living  here. 
I  believe  he  hates  to  think  he  has  married  a  rich  woman. 
I  can  write  you  a  cheque  now.     Come  indoors." 

The  relief  was  enormous.  But  many  things  had  to 
be  thought  of.  It  was  not  only  the  money  he  had 
come  for.  He  could  have  got  that,  as  he  had  said, 
elsewhere,  and  no  sacrifice  would  have  been  too  great 
to  make  for  it,  if  it  had  been  all  that  was  wanted. 

"  My  dear  Virginia,"  he  said,  "  you  are  generosity 
itself;  but  I  shouldn't  like  to  take  it  from  you  without 
Dick  knowing  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  tell  him,  of  course.  But  he  won't  mind. 
Why  should  he.?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  he  feels  about  Gotch  going. 
The  Governor  is  up  in  arms  at  his  wanting  to  leave 
Kencote  at  all.  Dick  may  feel  the  same,  for  all  I 
know." 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  see,"  she  said.  "  We  are  up 
against  the  dear  old  feudal  system.  I  am  always  for- 
getting about  that ;  and  I  do  try  so  hard  to  be  British, 
Hum.phrey." 


226  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Humphrey  smiled.  "  You'll  do  as  you  are,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  myself  that  every  fellow  ought  to  have  his 
chance.  If  he  sees  his  way  to  doing  well  for  himself 
it  isn't  fair  to  expect  him  to  throw  it  away  just  because 
he's  your  servant,  as  his  fathers  were  before  him." 

Virginia's  face  showed  mock  horror.  "  But,  Hum- 
phrey !  "  she  said,  "  this  is  rank  Radicalism !  What! 
A  man  who  can  have  as  many  blankets  and  as  much 
soup  as  he  likes — to  make  up  for  the  smallness  of  his 
wages — has  a  right  to  go  off  and  be  his  ovn  master! 
To  think  that  I  should  hear  such  words  from  a 
Clinton !  " 

Humphrey  could  not  keep  it  up.  He  smiled,  but  had 
no  light  answer  ready.  "  Keepers  get  quite  decent 
wages,"  he  said,  "  and  the  Governor  was  prepared  to 
put  Gotch  into  that  new  cottage  he's  building;  do 
well  for  him,  in  fact.  That's  why  he  thinks  it  ungrate- 
ful of  him  to  want  to  go,  and  won't  help  in  any 
way.  The  question  is  whether  Dick  won't  feel  the 
same." 

"  Oh,  I  think  not,"  she  said.  "  Dick  is  getting  quite 
democratic.  I,  Virginia  Clinton,  have  made  him  so. 
Why,  the  other  day  he  actually  said  that  the  will  of 
the  people  ought  to  prevail — if  we  could  only  find  out 
what  it  was.  He  is  getting  on  fast.  No,  Humphrey, 
I'm  sure  Dick  won't  mind.  If  I  thought  he  would,  I 
wouldn't  do  it — without  asking  him  first.  I  am  going 
to  do  it.  I  want  to  do  it.  I  like  to  think  of  a  young 
man  like  Gotch,  good  and  strong,  going  off  to  carve 
himself  out  a  place  in  a  new  country.     You  have  all 


A  Very  Present  Help  227 

been  very  patient  with  me,  and  I  love  you  all  dearly, 
but  I  shall  never  come  to  think  that  it  is  a  proper  life 
for  a  man  to  spend  all  his  days  in  bringing  up  birds 
for  other  people  to  kill.  Now  who  shall  I  make  the 
cheque  out  to — you  or  Gotch?  " 

She  was  at  her  writing-table  with  her  cheque-book  in 
front  of  her,  and  a  pen  in  her  hand.  It  was  difficult 
to  restrain  her.  But  the  cheque  was  not  all  that 
Humphrey  wanted. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  "  Let's  get  it  right  in 
our  minds.     Gotch  doesn't  want  charity." 

She  put  down  her  pen,  and  her  delicate  skin  flushed. 
"  I  shouldn't  offer  it  to  him,"  she  said.  "  I  hate 
charity — the  charity  of  the  money-bags." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  girl !  "  he  said,  "  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
you.  We're  a  clumsy  race,  you  know ;  we  think  things 
out  aloud.  I  was  only  wondering  what  would  be  the 
best  way." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  standing  over  her,  her  mo- 
mentary offence  gone.  "Why,  of  course,"  she  said. 
"We  must  help  him  without  putting  him  under  any 
obligation.     How  shall  we  do  it.?  " 

"You  see,  the  money  ought  to  come  from  the 
Governor,  or  Dick.  If  you  or  I  were  to  give  it  him, 
and  they  had  no  hand  in  it,  he  would  be  leaving  Ken- 
cote  under  a  sort  of  cloud.  He  wouldn't  want  that, 
and  I  shouldn't  like  it  for  him.  And  I  don't  want  the 
money  to  come  from  me.  That  would  look  as  if  I 
thought  a  money  payment  would  be  a  suitable  acknowl- 
edgment of  what  he  did  in  coming  to  my  rescue." 


228  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

There  was  more  earnestness  in  his  voice  than  his  words 
seemed  to  warrant.  Virginia  looked  a  little  puzzled. 
But  her  brow  cleared  again.  Perhaps  this  was  only 
one  of  those  little  niceties  of  feudal  honour  which  she 
never  did  and  never  would  understand. 

"Well  then,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  she  said. 
"  Let  us  go  to  Gotch  together,  and  I'll  give  him  my 
cheque  and  tell  him  that  it  comes  from  Dick,  who  is 
away." 

He  breathed  deeply.  "  Are  you  sure  Dick  won't 
mind  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quite  sare.  He  said  the  other  day  that  Gotch 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  go  if  he  wanted  to." 

"  Did  he  really  say  that,  Virginia?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  when  your  father  settled  that  the  other 
man  should  have  the  new  cottage.  No,  Dick  won't 
mind.  By  the  bye,  are  you  sure  that  Mr.  Clinton  won't.? 
If  he  objects  to  Gotch  going " 

"He  objects  to  helping  him  to  go.  I  told  him  I 
should  ask  Dick." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  he  should  w^ash  his  hands  of  it." 

"  Oh,  then,  that's  all  right.  Here  is  the  cheque ; 
we'll  go  and  find  Gotch,  and  give  it  him,  and  wish  him 
joy.     There  is  just  time  before  dinner." 

"  Virginia,"  said  Humphrey  devoutly,  "  you  are  an 
angel." 

That  night  Humphrey  and  his  father  sat  up  late 
together. 

The  Squire  had  gone  through  a  terrible  time  since 


A  Very  Present  Help  229 

Humphrey  had  left  him  to  go  down  to  the  Dower 
House,  with  the  words,  "  Whatever  you  do,  or  don't  do, 
I'm  going  to  fight  hard  to  save  our  name."  All  the 
usual  outlets  through  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
relieve  the  pressure  of  an  offence  were  denied  him. 
Irritability  would  cause  remark.  And  this  was  too 
deep  and  dreadful  an  offence  to  create  irritability. 
High  words  would  not  assuage  it ;  cries  raised  to 
heaven  about  the  ingratitude  of  mankind,  and  his  own 
liability  to  suffer  from  it,  had  been  used  too  often  over 
small  matters  to  make  them  anything  but  a  mocker}^ 
as  applied  to  this  great  one.  He  was  stricken  dumb 
by  it. 

The  night  was  black  all  around  him.  There  was  no 
light  to  guide  his  steps.  Even  the  one  he  had  alread}^ 
taken  he  was  in  doubt  about,  now  he  had  taken  it.  He 
did  not  question  his  own  action  in  refusing  to  cut  the 
knot.  He  had  simply  felt  unable  to  do  it,  and  had 
followed  that  light,  as  far  as  it  had  led  him.  But 
when  Humphrey  had  gone  away  to  find  Dick,  and  ask 
him  to  provide  money  for  Gotch,  without  telling  him 
why  it  must  be  found,  somewhere  or  other,  he  had  hoped 
that  Dick  would  consent ;  and  this  troubled  him. 

When  he  went  upstairs  to  dress  for  dinner,  after 
sitting  motionless  in  the  library  for  over  an  hour, 
he  locked  the  door  and  knelt  down  by  the  bed  in  his 
dressing-room  and  prayed  to  God  for  help  in  his  trouble 
and  guidance  in  his  difficulties.  He  had  felt  increas- 
ngly,  as  he  sat  and  thought  downstairs,  that  prayer 
i^as  the  only  thing  that  would  help  him;  but  he  could 


230  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

not  kneel  down  in  the  library,  and  it  was  dishonouring 
to  God  Almighty  not  to  kneel  down  when  you  prayed. 
So  he  went  upstairs,  earlier  than  his  wont,  to  the 
bedside  at  which  he  had  said  his  daily  and  nightly 
prayers  for  over  forty  years.  He  never  slept  in  this 
bed ;  it  was  the  altar  of  his  private  devotions,  which 
were  never  pretermitted,  although  by  lapse  of  time  they 
had  slid  into  a  kind  of  home-made  liturgy,  which 
demanded  small  effort  of  spirit,  and  less  of  mind.  But 
now  he  prayed  earnestly,  with  bowed  head  and  broken 
words,  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer  at  the  close  of  his 
petitions,  and  rising  from  his  knees  purged  somewhat 
of  his  fears,  and  supported  in  his  deep  trouble. 

At  dinner  he  was  a  good  deal  silent,  but  not  per- 
ceptibly brooding  over  disclosures  made  to  him,  as  Hum- 
phi^ey  had  feared  of  him.  He  even  smiled  once  or 
twice,  and  spoke  courteously  to  his  wife  and  affec- 
tionately to  Joan.  He  took  Joan's  hand  in  his  as  she 
passed  him  to  go  out  of  the  room  with  her  mother, 
and  she  gave  him  a  hug,  and  a  kiss,  which  he  returned. 
She  thought  that  Humphrey  had  told  him  about  Bobby 
Trench's  engagement,  and  this  was  his  way  of  showing 
that  she  was  finally  forgiven  for  rejecting  that  fickle 
suit.  But  it  was  his  desire  to  find  contact  with  inno- 
cence, and  the  tranquillity  of  his  home,  that  had 
prompted  the  caress. 

"  Dick  has  gone  up  to  London,"  he  said,  raising  his 
eyes,  when  Humphrey  had  shut  the  door  and  come 
back  to  the  table. 

"  Yes,"    said   Humphrey.     "  But    Virginia   had   the 


A  Very  Present  Help  231 

money,  and  said  that  Dick  would  like  her  to  give  it.  He 
had  told  her  that  Gotch  ought  to  be  helped  to  go 
away." 

"  He  never  said  that  to  me,"  said  the  Squire,  with 
no  clear  sense  of  relief  at  the  news,  except  that  it  meant 
that  a  decision  had  been  taken  out  of  his  hands. 

"  Well,  he  had  said  it  to  her,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
done  it.  She  and  I  went  to  Gotch  together.  She  said 
just  the  right  things,  and  he  was  as  grateful  as  possible. 
He  takes  it  that  he's  forgiven  for  holding  out.  I  told 
him  that  you  wouldn't  do  it  yourself  after  all  you  had 
said,  but  you  had  withdrawn  your  opposition." 

"  Why  do  you  say  these  things,  Humphrey.?  "  asked 
the  Squire,  in  a  pained  and  almost  querulous  voice. 
"  None  of  them  are  lies,  exactly,  but  they  are  not  the 
truth,  either." 

"  I  shouldn't  care  if  they  were  lies,"  said  Humphrey. 
"  I'm  long  past  caring  about  that." 

The  Squire  sighed  deeply.  "  I  won't  talk  about  it 
over  the  table,"  he  said,  rising,  and  leaving  his  glass 
of  port  half  full.  "  We  will  go  and  ask  Joan  to  play 
to  us,  and  talk  in  my  room  later." 

As  Joan  played,  he  sat  in  his  chair  thinking.  Relief 
was  beginning  to  find  its  way  into  his  sombre  thoughts. 
He  took  it  to  be  in  answer  to  his  prayer.  If  you  took 
your  difficulties  to  God,  a  way  of  escape  would  be  opened 
out.  The  old  aunts  w^ho  had  brought  him  up  in  his 
childhood  had  impressed  that  upon  him,  and  he  had 
never  doubted  it,  although  he  had  had  no  occasion 
hitherto  to  try  the  experiment.     He  had  not  made  it 


232  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

a  subject  of  prayer  when  Walter  had  so  annoyed  hirn 
by  refusing  to  take  Holy  Orders  with  a  view  to  the 
family  living,  and  insisted  on  studying  medicine,  which 
no  Clinton  had  ever  done  before;  or  when  Cicely  had 
gone  off  to  stay  in  London  without  a  with-your-leave 
or  a  by-your-leave ;  or  when  Dick  had  gone  against  his 
strong  wishes  and  insisted  upon  marrying  Virginia;  or 
when  Humphrey  had  come  to  him  with  debts ;  or  even 
when  Joan  had  refused  to  make  a  marriage  which  he 
thought  to  be  well  for  her  to  make.  Soothed  by  Joan's 
playing,  his  thoughts  ran  reflectively  through  these 
and  other  disturbances  and  difficulties  that  had  marked 
}iis  otherwise  equable,  prosperous  life,  and  he  saw 
for  the  first  time  how  little  he  had  really  had  to  com- 
plain of. 

But  that  enlightenment  only  seemed  to  deepen  the 
black  shadows  that  lay  in  the  gulf  opened  out  before 
him.  The  props  of  position  and  wealth  that  had  sus- 
tained him  were  of  no  avail  here.  They  had  supported 
him  in  other  troubles;  they  would  only  make  this  one 
worse  to  bear.  It  would  find  him  stripped  naked  for 
the  world  to  jeer  at.  This  was  the  sort  of  trouble  in 
which  a  man  wanted  help  from  above. 

And  the  help  had  come,  promptly;  perhaps  all  the 
more  promptly  because  he  had  acted  uprightly.  He 
could  not  have  given  in  to  Humphrey's  request,  what- 
ever the  consequences,  knowing  what  he  did.  But  that 
it  should  have  been  immediately  met,  in  a  way  to  which 
no  objection  could  be  taken,  elsewhere,  seemed  to  show 
that  it  was  not  the  will  of  God  that  disgrace  should 


A  Very  Present  Help  233 

overwhelm  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty.  He 
could  look  that  disgrace  in  the  face  now,  or  rather  in 
the  flank,  as  a  peril  past;  and  he  went  through  almost 
unendurable  pangs  as  he  did  so.  He  turned  in  his 
chair,  and  the  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  brow  as 
the  horror  of  what  he  had  escaped  came  home  to  him. 
He  thanked  God  that  he  had  acted  aright.  If  he  had 
pictured  to  himself  fully  what  might  come  from  his 
refusal,  he  might  have  stained  his  honour  with  almost 
any  act  that  would  avert  such  appalling  humilia- 
tion. 

When  he  and  Humphrey  were  alone  together  he 
spoke  with  more  of  his  usual .  manner  than  he  had 
hitherto  done.  "  I  can't  justly  complain  of  what  you 
have  done,"  he  said.  "  Whether  it  would  have  been 
right  to  take  any  steps  to  save  Susan  herself  from  the 
consequence  of  what  she  has  done — to  hush  it  up — 
fortunately  we  haven't  got  to  decide  on.  We  can  leave 
that  in  the  hands  of  a  higher  power." 

"  She  has  been  pretty  well  punished  already,"  said 
Humphrey.  "  Right  or  wrong,  I'm  going  to  do  what  I 
can  to  keep  the  rest  of  her  life  from  being  ruined. 
Thank  God,  it  has  been  done." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  can  say  '  Thank  God '  too.  Others 
would  have  had  to  suffer — grievously— and,  after  all, 
no  wrong  has  been  done  to  anybody.  With  regard  to 
Gotch,  I  can  wash  my  hands  of  it.  I  couldn't  have 
given  him  money  myself,  knowing  what  I  did,  and  you 
must  take  the  responsibility  of  it — with  Dick." 

"  Oh,  I'll   take  the   responsibility,"   said   Humphrey 


234  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

with  a  shade  of  contempt.  "  It  won't  trouble  my  con- 
science much." 

"  But  now  we  have  to  consider  what  is  to  be  done," 
said  the  Squire.  "  I  can't  have  Susan  here,  Humphrey. 
She  must  never  come  here  again.  I  won't  add  to  your 
troubles,  my  boy,  by  talking  about  what  she  has  done. 
I  couldn't  trust  myself  to  do  it.  But  I  couldn't  see  her 
and  behave  as  I  always  have  done.  It  would  be  beyond 
my  power." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Humphrey  shortly.  "  I'll  shoulder 
that,  with  the  rest." 

The  Squire  looked  at  him.  "  What  are  you  going 
to  do?  "  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean.?     With  her?" 

"  Yes.  How  are  you  going  to  live  together,  after 
this?" 

"  As  we  always  have  done.  I  took  her  for  better  or 
worse.  I'm  going  to  do  my  duty  by  her.  I'm  going 
to  protect  her  first  of  all  from  suffering  any  more; 
and  then  I'm  going  to  help  her  to  live  it  down — with 
herself.  I  haven't  helped  her  much,  so  far.  She  is 
weak,  and  I've  been  weak  with  her — ^weak  and  selfish. 
I've  got  something  more  in  me  than  I've  shown  yet, 
and  now's  the  time  to  show  it,  and  to  help  her  on  as 
well  as  myself." 

The  Squire  was  deeply  touched.  "  My  dear  boy," 
he  said,  "  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  talk  like  that.  Yes, 
you're  right;  you  must  be  right.  One  can't  judge  of 
her  leniently,  perhaps,  but  what  she  must  have  gone 
through  at  the  time  of  that  trial — and  before!     You 


A  Very  Present  Help  235 

will  be  able  to  work  on  her ;  and  nobody  else  could. 
Perhaps,  later  on — I  don't  know — I  might  bring  my- 
self  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  need.     I  am  going  to  take 
her  away  for  some  time — for  some  years,  perhaps." 

"What !  You're  not  going  to  live  in  your  new  house.''" 

"  No.  I  couldn't,  yet  awhile.  So  far,  I've  talked 
as  if  nothing  mattered  except  getting  clear  of  this 
horrible  exposure  that  threatened  us.  I  can't  feel  that 
anything  does  matter  much  until  that  is  done.  But 
that's  not  all  I  have  been  thinking  of,  father,  since 
this  blow  came  to  me.  It  has  gone  pretty  deep.  I 
couldn't  go  on  living  the  same  sort  of  life,  under  rather 
different  surroundings,  but  amongst  people  that  we 
have  known,  and  who  would  expect  us  to  be  just  the 
same  as  we  have  always  been.  We've  got  to  start 
together  afresh,  and  get  used  to  ourselves — to  our  new 
selves,  if  you  like  to  put  it  so.  We're  going  abroad. 
Susan  is  ill  now,  and  we  can  make  it  seem  natural 
enough.  We  shall  stay  abroad  for  some  time,  and  then 
I  shall  let  the  house,  if  I  can,  so  that  it  won't  seem 
odd  that  we  shouldn't  come  back.  In  a  few  years,  if 
we  want  to,  we  can  come  back;  and  then  perhaps  we 
shall  live  there." 

"  Well,  it  wants  thinking  over  carefully,  Humphrey ; 
but  I  think  you  are  right.  Still,  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose 
sight  of  you — for  years." 

Humphrey  was  silent. 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  I  was  rather  hasty,  just 
now,  when  I  said  I  couldn't  have  Susan  here.     I  couldn't, 


236  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

now.     But  later  on Oli,  my  boy,  I  don't  want  to 

make  it  harder  for  you  than  it  is  abeady.  You've  set 
yourself  a  big  task.  God  help  you  to  carry  it  through ! 
Bring  her  here,  Humphrey,  in  a  year  or  so.  I'm  your 
father ;  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  help  you." 

"  Thank  3^ou,  father.     You've  been  very  good." 

"  If  you  want  any  money " 

"  Oh  no.  We  shan't  be  spending  much — not  for  a 
long  time." 

Neither  spoke  for  some  minutes.  Then  the  Squire 
frowned  and  cleared  his  throat.  "  There's  one  thing 
that  has  to  be  done,"  he  said.  "  The — the  taking  of 
that  necklace — Lady  Sedbergh's — she  has  had  this 
loss " 

"  You  mean  about  paying  back  the  money.  I've 
thought  of  that.  I  must  do  it  by  degrees.  That's  one 
reason  why  I'm  going  abroad.  I  can  save  more  than 
half  my  income." 

"  Oh,  you've  thought  of  that." 

"  Yes.  You  didn't  suppose  I  was  going  to  hush  it 
up,  and  do  nothing  about  the  money !  I've  not  quite 
come  down  to  that,  father." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  my  boy.  Only — well,  it  didn't  occur 
to  me  for  some  time.  But  how  could  3^ou  do  it — if  it 
were  left  to  you.''  How  could  you  send  money  by 
degrees  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  thought  much  about  how  to  do  it.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  to  wait  until  I  had  got  it  all.  Then 
I  could  send  it  in  a  lump,  from  some  place  where  it 
couldn't  be  traced." 


A  Very  Present  Help  237 

The  Squire  spoke  after  a  thoughtful  pause.  "  I 
don't  like  that,  Humphrey." 

"  Well,  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  think  out  a  way. 
I  haven't  got  a  penny  of  it  yet." 

"  No ;  and  it  can't  wait  until  yow  have  saved  it. 
I  should  never  have  a  moment's  peace  of  mind  while 
it  was  owing.  I  must  help  you  there,  Humphrey.  It's 
what  I  can  do  to  help." 

"  Oh  no,  father.  It's  part  of  the  price.  I  mean  to 
pay  it.  It  will  keep  it  before  us — going  short.  I 
wish  I  could  have  raised  the  mone^^  at  once.  I  wish 
you  hadn't  made  old  Aunt  Laura  put  that  clause  into 
her  will." 

The  Squire  rather  wished  he  hadn't,  too.  Seven 
thousand  pounds  was  a  large  sum  to  find.  Something 
like  thirty  thousand  pounds  had  been  left  to  Humphrey, 
with  reversion  to  Walter  and  his  children.  But  the 
Squire  had  advised  that  Humphrey  should  be  restrained 
from  anticipation  of  his  life  interest,  and  this  had  been 
effected. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  that's  done.  But  this  money  must 
be  paid  at  once.  It  will  only  be  fair  to  the  others, 
Humphrey,  that  it  shall  come  off  3'our  share.  But  I 
will  find  it  for  you  now.  If  you  like  to  pay  it,  or 
some  of  it,  back  again,  I  won't  say  no.  But  that  shall 
be  as  you  like.     It  will  be  the  same  in  the  end." 

"  You  are  very  good,  father.  But  how  can  you  do 
it  without  Dick's  knowing?  " 

"  Dick  doesn't  take  part  in  all  my  affairs ;  only  in 
matters  that  have  to  do  with  the  land.     I  can  raise 


238  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

it  without  affecting  the  estate  accounts.  He  will  know, 
probably,  that  something  is  being  done,  but  he  won't 
ask  questions.  Dick  is  very  careful  not  to  touch  on 
my  right  to  do  what  I  please  with  my  own." 

At  any  other  time  Humphrey  would  have  been  in- 
terested in  this  statement.  Like  the  sons  of  many  rich 
men,  he  knew  little  of  his  father's  affairs,  and  had  only 
the  vaguest  ideas  as  to  the  amount  and  sources  of  his 
wealth.  But  he  was  only  interested  now  in  the  fact 
that  his  father  was  able,  and  willing,  to  provide  so 
large  a  sum  as  seven  thousand  pounds  at  once. 

"  It  would  be  a  tremendous  relief  to  be  rid  of  that 
burden,"  he  said.  "  If  you  can  do  it,  I  would  pay  you 
back  what  I  don't  spend  out  of  my  income." 

"  Yes,  I  can  do  it,  and  I  will,  as  soon  as  possible. 
But,  Humphrey,  my  boy,  this  money  can't  be  sent 
anonymously." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  be  expected  to  see  everything 
very  clearly  yet.  If  you  will  think  it  over,  you  will 
see  that  we  can't  act  in  that  way.  You  mustn't  expect 
me  to  do  it." 

Humphrey  thought  for  a  time.  "  What  do  you 
suggest.'^  "  he  asked. 

"  Either  you  or  I  must  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to 
Sedbergh !  " 

"  Oh,  father !  " 

"  Yes.  That  must  be  done.  Our  honour  demands  it. 
You  will  see  it  plainly  enough  if  you  think  it  over.  I 
believe  you  were  right  in  stipulating  for  secrecy  on  my 


A  Very  Present  Help  239 

part,  as  you  did.  Certainl}-  I  couldn't  behave  as  I 
want  to  do  to  Susan,  when  the  time  comes,  if  I  knew 
that  others  in  the  house  besides  myself  knew  her  story. 
But  this  is  different.     We  mustn't  act  like  cowards." 

"  Isn't  he  annoyed  with  us — about  Joan?  " 

"  Not  annoyed.  He  was  sorry.  So  was  I — though 
I'm  not  sure  now.  I  think  my  first  instinct  was  the 
right  one.  The  sort  of  life  that's  lived  in  houses  like 
Brummels — well,  you  see  what  it  leads  to." 

It  was  the  old  familiar  song ;  but  set  to  how  different 
a  tune !  Humphrey,  even  in  his  pre-occupation,  noted 
the  change,  and  felt  a  sense  of  comfort  and  support  in 
something  stable,  underlying  the  habitual  crudities  and 
inconsistencies  in  his  father. 

"Jim  Sedbergh  was  a  very  intimate  friend  of  mine," 
said  the  Squire,  "  many  years  ago.  He  is  a  friend  still. 
We  found  we  hadn't  changed  much  to  each  other  when 
he  came  here.  I  can  trust  him  as  I  would  trust  my- 
self. He  will  take  the  view  I  do,  whatever  it  is.  You 
had  better  let  me  see  him,  Humphrey.  He'll  keep  what- 
ever I  tell  him  to  himself." 

They  settled  that  he  should  go  up  to  London  the 
next  day.  That  was  all  there  was  to  settle  for  the 
present,  and  it  was  already  very  late. 

"  Well,  good  night,  Humphrey,  my  dear  boy,"  said 
the  Squire.  "  You'll  get  through  this  great  trouble. 
We  shall  all  get  through  it  in  time.  You  know  where 
to  go  for  help  and  comfort.  I've  been  there  already, 
and  I've  got  what  I  went  for.  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
boy.     He  \^11,  if  you  ask  Him." 


CHAPTER    III 


THE    BURDEN 


(C 


My  dear  Edward,  I  am  deeply  sorry  for  you." 

The  Squire  leant  back  in  the  big  easy-chair  and  wiped 
his  brow,  which  was  beaded  with  perspiration.  He  had 
told  his  story,  and  it  had  been  the  bitterest  task  he  had 
ever  undertaken. 

Lord  Sedbergh's  face  was  very  serious.  The  two 
men  had  lunched  together  at  his  club,  and  were  sitting  in 
the  inner  upstairs  library,  with  coffee  and  liqueurs  at 
their  elbows,  by  the  window  looking  on  to  the  green 
of  the  park — ^two  men  of  substantial  fortune  and 
accredited  position,  entrenched  in  one  of  the  rich 
retreats  dedicated  to  the  leisure  of  their  exclusive 
kind. 

But  the  Squire's  cura9oa  was  untouched,  and  his 
cigar  had  gone  out.  The  retired  and  tranquil  luxury 
of  his  surroundings  brought  no  sense  of  refuge ;  he  felt 
naked  before  those  others  of  his  untroubled  equals  who, 
out  of  hearing  in  the  larger  room,  would  have  looked 
up  with  reprehensive  curiosity  if  they  could  have 
imagined  what  breath  from  the  sordid  outer  world  was 
tainting  the  temple  of  their  comfort. 

"  I   appreciate   your   courage   in   coming  to    tell  me 

this ;  it  must  have  cost  you  a  deal.     But  I  almost  wish 

you  hadn't." 

340 


The  Burden  241 

The  Squire  sat  forward  again,  and  drank  his  liqueur 
at  a  gulp. 

"  I  couldn't  leave  it  as  it  was,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  though  most  men  in  your  case  would 
have  been  inclined  to  do  so.  Have  another  cig^r, 
Edward.     That  one  hasn't  lighted  well." 

The  Squire  accepted  this  offer.  The  worst  was  over ; 
and  his  friend  had  taken  the  disclosure  with  all  the 
kindness  he  had  expected  of  him. 

"  I  couldn't  do  anything  myself  to  stop  its  coming 
out,"  he  said,  when  his  wants  had  been  supplied.  "  But 
I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame  Humphrey  for  what 
he  did.  You  couldn't  say  that  this  money  that  has 
been  paid  to  somebody  who  knows  nothing  about  it,  hy 
somebody  who  knows  nothing  about  it,  is  in  any,  way 
hush-money." 

Whether  you  could  or  not.  Lord  Sedbergh  was  not 
prepared  to  say  it.  "  No,  no,"  he  said  comfortabl}^ 
"  you  were  quite  right  there,  Edward.  You  acted 
honourably — nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  But 
what  an  astonishing  story  it  is !  To  think  that  we  were 
wrong  all  the  time !  And  Susan  Clinton,  of  all  people ! 
Did  you  say  she  was  hidden  in  the  room  when  my  wife 
was  talking  about  the  secret  .^^  " 

His  mind  was  running  on  details  which  had  long 
ceased  to  occupy  the  Squire.  His  curiosity  had  to  be 
satisfied  to  some  extent,  and  his  surprise  vanquished, 
before  he  was  ready  to  consider  the  story  in  its  actual 
bearings.  Without  intending  to  add  to  the  pangs  of 
his  friend,  he  made  clear  by  the  way  he  discussed  it, 


242  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

the  position  that  Susan  must  occupy  in  the  view  of 
anyone  not  influenced  by  the  fact  of  relationship.  She 
was  the  thief,  found  out  and  condemned,  to  the  loss  of 
all  reputation  and  right  of  intercourse  with  her  equals. 
So  had  Mrs.  Amberley  been  condemned,  by  the  self- 
protective  code  of  society.  The  Squire  saw  Susan  in 
Mrs.  Amberley's  place,  more  vividly  and  afflictively  than 
he  had  seen  her  hitherto. 

"  She  will  be  kept  out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  struggling 
against  the  hurt  to  his  pride.  "  Humphrey  is  going 
to  take  her  abroad.  You  don't  think  it  is  necessary 
for  anyone  else  to  know.?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no.  Good  heavens,  no !  What  you  have 
told  me  shall  be  kept  absolutely  sacred,  Edward.  1 
shouldn't  breathe  a  word,  or  a  hint,  to  any  living  soul." 

The  Squire  breathed  more  freely.  "  We  shall  look 
after  her,"  he  said  with  a  stronger  feeling  of  the 
measure  to  be  dealt  out  to  the  culprit  than  he  had  yet 
experienced.  "  She  won't  go  scot-free.  But  exposure 
would  bear  so  hard  on  the  innocent — I  couldn't  have 
come  to  you,  I  believe — though  I  know  it's  the  only 
right  thing  to  do — if  I  hadn't  been  pretty  sure  that 
you  would  have  felt  that." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  feel  it.  It  mustn't  happen.  It 
won't  happen.      It  needn't  happen." 

"  Thank  you,  Jim,"  said  the  Squire  simply.  "  You 
were  always  a  good  friend  of  mine." 

"  Don't  think  any  more  of  it,  Edward.  Lord,  what 
a  terrible  time  you  must  have  gone  through !  Let's 
put  it  out  of  our  minds,  for  good.     You  and  I  have 


The  Burden  243 

done  nothing  wrong,  at  any  rate.  Why  shouldn't  wc 
sustain  ourselves  with  another " 

"  There's  a  detail  that  has  to  be  settled  between  us," 
interrupted  the  Squire,  "  before  we  can  put  it  aside. 
Wliat  did  you  value  that  necklace  at?  Seven  thousand 
pounds,  wasn't  it?  I  have  been  to  my  people  this  morn- 
ing.    I  can  let  you  have  it  within  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"  That's  a  matter,"  said  Lord  Sedbergh  after  a  pause 
of  reflection,  "  that  can  only  be  considered  with  the 
help  of  some  very  old  brandy.     It  hadn't  occurred  to 


me." 


"  Wonderful  stuff  this."  Neither  of  them  had  spoken 
since  the  brandy  had  been  ordered.  "  I  don't  believe 
you'll  get  anything  like  it  anywhere  else.  Well  now, 
my  dear  Edward,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  leave  that 
business  alone." 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that.  Humphrey  doesn't  want 
to,  either.  He  mentioned  it  before  I  did.  It  is  he  who 
will  pay  it  in  the  long  run.  That's  only  fair.  But 
I  can  provide  the  money  now,  and  he  can't." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  the  money ;  and  I'm  glad  to  be 
in  the  position  of  being  able  to  say  so.  WJiat  could  I 
do  with  it?  Buy  another  necklace?  That  would  be 
running  the  risk  of  questions  being  asked  that  it  might 
be  difficult  to  answer." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  You  are  rich  enough  to  be  able  to 
replace  an  heirloom — it  was  an  heirloom,  wasn't  it.'^ — ■ 
and  make  up  to  your  wife  what  has  been  lost,  without 
occasioning  remark.  Oh,  you  must  take  the  money, 
Jim.     You're  as  generous  as  any  man  living — I  know 


244  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

that.  But  the  loss  cannot  fall  on  you,  now  it  is  known 
where  the  money  went  to.  That  poor  misguided  creature 
had  it  and  spent  it.  It  would  be  a  burden  on  me  all 
my  life,  if  I  couldn't  put  that  right — and  on  Humphrey 
too.     He  would  feel  it  as  much  as  I  should." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  can't  put  it  right,"  said  Lord  Sed- 
bergh,  speaking  more  seriously.  "  And  it's  a  burden 
that  you  and  Humphrey  will  have  to  shoulder.  I'll  do 
everything  I  can  for  you,  Edward;  but  I  won't  carry 
that  burden." 

"  What  do  3^ou  mean  ?  "  asked  the  Squire. 

Lord  Sedbergh  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  looked  up  and  asked,  "  What  about  Mrs.  Amber- 
ley?" 

The  Squire  frowned  deeply.  The  question  was  a 
surprise  to  him.  He  had  not  thought  much  about  Mrs. 
Amberley,  except  as  an  example  of  what  Susan  might 
be  made  to  appear  before  the  world. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  how  I  regard  that,"  he 
said  unwillingly.  "  I  didn't,  because  it  seems  to  me 
perfectly  plain,  and  I  thought  you  would  see  it  in  the 
same  light  as  I  do." 

Lord  Sedbergh  waited  for  him  to  explain  the  light 
in  which  he  saw  it. 

"  She  isn't  in  prison  any  longer.  They  let  her  out, 
because  she  was  ill — or  so  they  said.  She's  as  free  as 
you  or  I.  Nothing  that  could  be  done — somebody  else 
suffering  in  the  same  way — would  wipe  out  what  she 
has  already  undergone — and  done  with.  Besides,  it 
wasn't  on  account  of  the  necklace  that  she  was  sent  to 


The  Burden  245 

prison.  It  was  on  account  of  the  other  thing ;  and  that 
she  did  steal." 

"  Yes,  that's  perfectly  true.  She  has  had  no  more 
than  her  deserts — rather  less  in  fact.  No,  you  couldn't 
reinstate  her  by  publishing  the  truth." 

"Well,  then,  what's  the  difficulty?" 

"  There's  no  difficulty,  Edward,  in  my  mind,  about 
keeping  quiet.  It  would  be  too  much  to  expect  any 
man  in  your  situation  to  bring  the  heaviest  possible 
misfortune  on  himself,  and  others,  for  the  sake  of  doing 
justice  to  someone  who  could  hardly  benefit  by  it.  At 
least  that's  how  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Justice ! "  echoed  the  Squire.  "  There's  no  ques- 
tion of  justice.  She  was  punished  for  something  quite 
different.  If  she  had  been  found  guilty  of  stealing  the 
necklace,  and  were  still  undergoing  punishment  for  it, 
the  whole  question  would  be  different  altogether.  Thank 
God,  we  haven't  got  to  face  that  question.  It  would  be 
terrible.  As  it  has  so  mercifully  turned  out,  no  injus- 
tice is  done  to  her  at  all.     Can't  you  see  that.''  " 

"  Well,  do  you  think  she  would,  if  she  were  asked.''  " 

Lord  Sedbergh  did  not  leave  time  for  his  question 
to  sink  in.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  he  went  on,  "  your 
course  is  as  difficult  as  it  could  be.  Who  am  I  that  I 
should  put  my  finger  on  any  one  of  its  difficulties,  and 
make  it  heavier.'^  You  have  done  nothing  that  I 
shouldn't  have  done  myself  if  I  had  been  in  your  place. 
At  the  same  time,  you  have  to  take  the  responsibility  for 
whatever  you  do,  and  I  haven't." 


246  The  Honour^  of  the  Clintons 

"  Yes,  I  know  that ;  and  it's  just  what  I  want  to  do — 
put  things  right  wherever  I  can." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  be  putting  anything  right  by 
paying  me  money.  You  would  only  be  making  me 
share  your  difficulties — your  great  and  very  disagree- 
able difficulties ;  and  that,  with  all  the  good  will  in  the 
world  towards  you,  my  dear  Edward,  I  won't  do." 

The  Squire  saw  it  dimly,  and  what  he  saw  did  not 
please  him.  Nor  was  his  light  enough  to  prevent  him 
from  pressing  his  point. 

When  Lord  Sedbergh  had  combated  it  for  some  time, 
with  firm  good  humour,  he  said  more  seriously,  "  Can't 
you  see  that  if  this  story  were  ever  to  come  out,  and 
I  had  taken  your  money,  I  should  be  in  a  very  awkward 
position?  " 

"  It  never  will  come  out  now." 

"  That's  your  risk,  Edward.  I  may  be  a  monster  of 
selfishness,  but  I  won't  make  it  mine." 

When  the  Squire  left  the  club  half-an-hour  later,  his 
face  was  not  that  of  a  man  who  had  been  set  free  of  a 
debt  of  seven  thousand  pounds. 


CHAPTER    IV 


THIS    OUR    SISTER 


"  Clinton.     On    the    16th    inst.    the    Lady 
Susan  Clinton,  aged  28." 

How  could  such  an  announcement,  to  the  Squire  read- 
ing it  in  the  obituary  column  of  his  paper,  cause  any 
emotion  stronger  than  the  feeling  that  all  was  for  the 
best? 

For  one  thing,  although  the  direct  cause  of  Susan's 
death  had  been  pneumonia,  there  was  little  doubt,  to 
him  who  knew  the  state  of  mind  she  had  been  in  when 
her  illness  had  first  attacked  her,  that  she  had  suc- 
cumbed to  that,  and  not  to  any  ailment  of  the  body, 
which,  otherwise,  she  could  have  shaken  off.  She  had 
paid  the  price,  poor  girl!  The  account  as  against  her 
was  closed,  her  name  dropped  from  the  ledger. 

That  she  had  died  in  full  repentance,  and  would 
therefore  escape  the  ultimate  fate  of  branded  sinners, 
his  easy  creed  allowed  him  to  take  for  granted.  The 
very  fact  that  she  had  died  seemed  to  make  her  state 
in  the  hereafter  secure.     For  her  it  was  well. 

And  not  less  so  for  those  whom  she  had,  in  the 
phrase  that  came  readily  to  his  lips,  left  behind.  Hum- 
phrey— poor  Humphrey — who  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief,  as  it  was  only  natural  he  should  be,  would  come 


248  Tlie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

to  feel  in  time  that  her  death  had  been,  if  not  a  blessing 
in  disguise — which  would  be  a  harsh  way  of  putting 
it — then  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence.  He 
had  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with.  He  had  cloven 
to  his  wife  at  a  time  when  he  might,  justifiably,  have 
played  a  very  different  part;  had  been  prepared  to 
share  with  her  such  of  the  punishment  for  her  crime 
as  could  not  be  avoided ;  had  even  accepted — quixotic- 
ally, as  the  Squire  thought — part  responsibility  for  it; 
and  in  short  had  fulfilled  his  duty  towards  her  with  a 
fine  loyalty  such  as  his  father,  remembering  certain 
episodes  in  his  career,  had  hardly  thought  to  be  in 
him.  He  had  been  tried  as  by  fire,  and  had  come  well 
out  of  the  ordeal,  a  better  man  in  every  way. 

No,  Humphrey  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with. 
Indeed,  it  would  comfort  him  in  the  future  to  think 
that  he  had  been  tender  to  the  poor  girl  in  her  disgrace, 
comforted  her,  been  ready  to  throw  over  the  life  that 
suited  him,  so  as  to  help  her  to  recover  herself,  stood 
up  for  her,  when  she  could  not  with  reason  be  defended, 
been  with  her  at  the  last,  broken  down  when  it  w^as  all 
over.  His  thoughts  ran  smoothly  into  the  worn  phrases 
apt  to  these  sad  occasions,  when  grief  is  subdued  to 
not  unpleasing  melancholy,  and  melancholy  is  the  shade 
of  the  tree  of  death,  in  which  we  are  sitting  for  a 
time,  but  with  the  sunshine  of  life  still  before 
us. 

Humphrey  was  still  young.  He  could  travel  for  a 
time,  if  he  wanted  to,  or,  perhaps  better  still,  stay 
quietly  at  Kencote,  until  he  had  got  over  his  loss ;  and 


This  Our  Sister  249 

then  he  could  take  up  his  life  as  before.  When  time 
liad  healed  his  wound  he  might  even  marry  again.  But 
that  was  to  look  too  far  ahead,  with  poor  Susan  not 
yet  under  the  ground,  and  the  Squire  checked  the 
thought  at  once.  If  she  had  lived  he  would  certainly 
have  had  a  very  difficult  time  with  her.  A  high  resolve 
is  one  thing;  the  power  to  carry  it  out,  day  by  day, 
when  the  exaltation  in  which  it  was  made  has  faded 
away,  is  another.  Humphrey  was  not  trained  to  such 
efforts.  He  might  have  tired  of  it.  Susan  might  have 
"  broken  out "  again.  All  sorts  of  trouble  might  have 
arisen,  which — well,  which,  by  the  mercy  of  Providence, 
it  was  not  necessary  now  to  conjecture.  For  Hum- 
phrey, all  was  for  the  best. 

The  Squire  was  glad,  on  his  own  account,  that  he  had 
withdrawn  his  embargo  upon  Susan's  visiting  Kencote, 
before  this  had  happened.  He  had  been  very  near  to 
imposing  it  again  after  his  interview  with  Lord  Sed- 
bergh;  but  Susan  had  even  then  been  dangerously  ill; 
and  the  absorption  caused  by  the  rapid  progress  of 
her  illness,  and  the  contingent  comings  and  goings,  had 
fortunately  taken  his  mind  off  the  details  of  her  past 
misdemeanour.  He  had  been  preserved — mercifully — • 
from  dealing  his  son  that  extra  blow. 

And  yet  he  doubted  whether  he  would  have  been  able 
to  play  his  part  with  her.  It  was  plain  now,  whatever 
it  had  been  when  he  had  walked  down  the  steps  of 
Lord  Sedbergh's  club,  that  strong  reproaches  would 
not  have  helped  matters;  that  nothing  he  had  had  it 
in  his  mind,  then,  to  do  or  say  to  ease  himself  of  the 


250  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

burden,  whose  weight  his  old  friend  had  made  him  com- 
pute by  refusing  to  touch  it,  would  have  lightened  it; 
and  that  the  effect  of  his  knowledge  would  only  have 
been  to  make  things  more  difficult  alike  for  himself 
and  for  Humphrey.  His  anger  against  the  poor  girl 
would  be  buried  in  her  grave.  It  would  not  be  difficult 
to  speak  of  her  now  with  that  regretful  affection  that 
would  be  expected  of  him. 

And  her  death  made  him  less  vulnerable.  He  per- 
ceived now,  not  without  a  shudder,  that  his  safety 
depended  upon  the  silence  of  a  woman  who,  wherever 
the  responsibility  lay,  had  been  bought,  and  might  be 
bought  again;  or,  if  that  were  unlikely,  might  lightly 
let  loose  the  hint  which,  gathering  other  hints  to  itself, 
would  grow  into  the  avalanche  that  would  involve  him 
in  the  disgrace  he  so  much  feared.  But  an  accusation 
against  a  dead  woman — if  it  were  made  it  would  be  less 
readily  believed,  more  reprehensible,  easier  to  cast  off. 
And  Susan  would  not  be  there,  a  possible  weakness  to 
her  own  defence. 

Here  again  he  checked  his  thoughts.  He  was  not 
ready  to  face  a  situation  in  which  he  would  either  have 
to  deny  untruthfully,  or  to  keep  damaging  silence. 
But,  certainly,  for  him,  all  was  for  the  best. 

Dick  came  in,  as  he  was  sitting  with  the  paper  on 
his  knee.  He  wore  a  black  tie,  but  was  otherwise  dressed 
as  usual.  His .  face  was  becomingly  grave.  They 
talked  over  details  of  the  funeral.  Susan  was  to  be 
buried  at  Kencote,  in  the  churchyard  where  so  many 
generations  of  Clintons  had  been  buried,  her  own  dis- 


This  Our  Sister  251 

tant  ancestors  among  them,  but  none  within  Hving 
memory  who  had  not  lived  out  the  full  tale  of  their 
years.  Her  body  v>ouJd  lie  in  the  church  that  night, 
and  the  house  would  fill  up  with  many  of  those  who 
would  follow  her  to  the  grave  on  the  morrow,  includ- 
ing some  members  of  her  own  family,  all  of  whom  the 
Squire  disliked  or  was  prepared  to  disHkc.  He  ardently 
wished  himself  done  with  the  painful  ordeal.  He 
doubted  whether  he  would  be  able  to  acquit  himself 
unremittingly  in  the  manner  that  would  be  expected 
of  him.  He  would  have  to  wear  a  face  of  gloom,  when 
he  was  already  itching  to  be  rid  of  these  cheerless  trail- 
ing postscripts  to  the  message  of  death,  and  commit 
himself  once  more  to  the  warm  current  of  life.  He 
would  have  to  say  so  many  things  that  he  did  not  feel, 
and  do  so  much  that  he  hated  doing. 

The  shadow,  not  of  grief  but  of  the  adjuncts  of 
grief,  lay  over  the  house,  and  darkened  the  bright  June 
sunshine,  or  such  of  it  as  was  allowed  to  filter  through 
the  blinded  windows.  Not  for  fifty  years  or  more  had 
such  an  assemblage  been  made  at  Kencote.  The  suc- 
cessive funerals  of  the  Squire's  six  aunts,  who  had 
lived  since  his  marriage  at  the  Dower  House,  and  the 
last  of  whom  had  died  at  another  house  in  the  village 
only  two  years  ago,  had  been  untroublous,  not  to  say 
brisk,  ceremonies,  occasions  of  meeting  between  seldom- 
seen  relations,  and  of  hospitality  almost  festive,  but 
tempered  by  affectionate  reminiscence  of  the  departed, 
and  the  feeling  that  one  might  talk  naturally  and 
freely,  so  long  as  one  did  not  actually  laugh.     Ripe 


252  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

ago  had  fallen  on  the  rest  laid  up  for  it ;  there  had 
been  no  occasion  to  feign  deep  sorrow. 

But — "  the  Lady  Susan  Clinton,  aged  28  "  ! — there 
was  material  for  sharp  sorrow  there ;  and  the  Squire  was 
disturbed  by  the  fear  that  he  might  not  be  able  to 
show  it;  might  even,  if  he  were  off  his  guard,  show 
that  he  did  not  feel  it. 

"  Did  you  hear  from  mother  this  morning?  "  asked 
Dick,  when  they  had  disposed  of  the  details  he  had 
come  to  discuss. 

"  Yes.  Humphrey  is  bearing  up ;  but,  of  course, 
poor  fellow,  he  can't  get  used  to  the  idea  yet.  We 
must  keep  him  here  for  a  bit,  after  we  rid  the  house 
of  all  these  people;  and  he'll  soon  come  round  to  him- 
self." 

"  Was  there  any  trouble  between  them  latterly  ?  " 
Dick  asked,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  but  gave  the 
Squire  time  to  collect  his  thoughts  by  going  on  imme- 
diately, "  I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  affairs  or  his, 
but  I  had  an  idea  that  that  business  of  Gotch's  wasn't 
all  he  came  to  see  you  about  the  other  day." 

"Why  do  you  think  that.^  "  asked  the  Squire  with 
undiplomatic  directness. 

"  Well — your  going  up  to  town  with  him  the  next 
day,  for  one  thing.  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  if 
it's  a  question  of  money  again,  which  hasn't  been  put 
right  by  poor  Susan's  death,  you  can  count  on  me 
for  help  if  there's  any  difficulty  in  raising  it." 

What  a  good  son  this  was — safe,  level-headed,  coolly 
and    responsibly    generous !     The    Squire    would    have 


Tfiis  Our  Sister  253 

given  a  good  deal  to  have  been  released  from  his 
promise,  and  able  to  take  him  into  full  confidence  then 
and  there. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  there  was  trouble  about  money,  and 
I  was  prepared  to  find  it,  without  interfering  with 
estate  affairs.  That's  why  I  didn't  come  to  you.  But 
the  necessity  is  over  now." 

He  mentally  patted  himself  on  the  back  for  this 
masterpiece  of  statement,  transgressing  the  strict  truth 
by  no  more  than  perfectly  allowable  omission. 

"  Her  settlement  falls  in,  I  suppose,"  said  Dick. 
"I'm  glad  you  were  spared  the  worry,  although  the 
way  out  of  it  is  sad  enough.  I've  been  sorry  for 
Humphrey  for  some  time.  He  had  come  to  see  that 
he  had  always  played  the  fool  about  money,  and  was 
beginning  to  get  his  ideas  straight;  but  poor  Susan — 
well,  one  doesn't  want  to  think  about  her  in  that  way 
now — but  there's  no  doubt  she  was  a  terrible  drag  on 
him.  I'd  seen  it  coming  for  some  time,  and  when  he 
talked  to  me  at  Christmas  about  settling  down,  I  was 
pretty  sure  that  he  didn't  know  everything,  and  would 
be  coming  with  another  story  soon." 

"  Why  did  you  think  that?  "  asked  the  Squire,  with 
the  sensation  of  treading  on  very  thin  ice. 

"  Oh,  it  was  common  talk  of  how  she  was  going  on — 
had  been,  I  should  sa^^,  for  she  did  seem  to  have  calmed 
down  within  the  last  year.  Otherwise,  I  think  I  should 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  give  Humphrey  a  hint, 
disagreeable  as  it  would  have  been.  Things  were  being 
hinted  at  about  a  year  ago   that   made  me   think   we 


254  Tlie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

might  find  ourselves  involved  in  some  bad  scandal  before 
we  were  much  older." 

"  Oh,  Dick,"  the  Squire  broke  out,  "  we  mustn't  talk 
like  this  about  a  dead  woman.  Humphrey  told  me 
everything.  It's  all  wiped  out  and  done  with  now,  for 
her,  poor  girl." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick.  "  But  I'm  not  going  to  pretend 
that  I  think  her  death  is  a  calamity.  I  don't ;  although 
any  feeling  one  may  have  had  against  her  is  wiped 
out,  as  you  say.  In  fact,  if  she  had  begun  to  pull 
herself  up,  as  I  think  she  had,  and  had  got  it  all  off 
her  mind  before  she  died,  as  I  suppose  she  did,  it's 
possible  to  feel  kindly  towards  her.  Still,  I  think  she 
had  made  too  big  a  mess  of  things.  It  would  have 
come  between  them.  As  it  is,  he'll  be  able  to  think  of 
her  without  bitterness.  He'll  get  over  the  shock  in 
time." 

This  was  all  so  much  what  the  Squire  felt  himself, 
summed  up  as  it  might  have  been  in  the  comfortable 
phrase,  "  all  for  the  best,"  that  its  effect  upon  him 
was  much  the  same  as  if  he  had  had  the  relief  of  telling 
Dick  everything.  He  cheered  up  palpably,  until  he 
remembered  what  lay  immediately  in  front  of  him ;  but 
faced  even  that  with  more  equanimity,  upheld  by  Dick's 
sympathetic  support,  and  relieved  of  some  doubt  as  to 
whether  his  thoughts  about  poor  Susan  were  quite  of 
the  right  colour. 

The  afternoon  train,  which  in  the  course  of  these 
histories  we  have  so  often  met  at  Kencote  Station, 
brought  the  coffin  and  the  mourners.     Humphrey  looked 


This  Our  Sister  255 

pale  and  worn,  but  collected.  He  stood  with  his 
mother's  arm  in  his  while  the  coffin,  covered  with  flowers, 
was  taken  out  of  the  purple-lined  van,  and  lifted  on 
to  a  hand  bier.  The  church  was  much  nearer  to  the 
station  than  the  house,  and  the  little  procession  walked 
there,  past  the  cottages  with  blinds  all  drawn,  and 
the  villagers  standing  b}^  them,  mostly  in  black,  which 
only  served  to  heighten  the  bright  colours  of  the  flowers 
with  which  the  gardens  were  full.  The  sky  was  of 
the  purest  blue,  and  larks  trilled  unseen  in  its  trans- 
lucent vapours,  as  if  to  draw  the  thoughts  of  the 
mourners  away  from  the  earth  in  which  they  were 
presently  to  see  these  mortal  remains  laid.  The  elms 
and  chestnuts  whispered  of  life  going  on  and  renewing 
itself  year  by  year  until  the  end.  The  rich  springing 
growth  of  early  summer  in  this  quiet  country  village 
spoke  of  life  and  of  hope ;  and  the  black  line  of 
mourners  moving  slowly  along  was  not  incongruous 
with  it,  if  the  poor  clay  they  were  escorting  was  really 
only  the  husk  from  which  new  life  had  already-  sprung. 
The  Squire,  sobered  to  becoming  gravity  by  the 
sight  of  the  coffin,  yet  felt  his  thoughts  tuned  to  the 
beauty  of  the  sky  and  the  familiar  surroundings.  It 
was  he  who  had  planned  this  walking  escort.  There 
would  be  carriages,  and  a  state  suitable  to  the  occasion 
on  the  morrow.  This  was  to  be  a  home-coming,  a  token 
of  his  forgiveness  of  her  for  the  trouble  she  had 
caused  him,  a  sort  of  last  taste  of  the  everyday  life 
of  Kencote,  into  the  intimacy  of  which  she  was  finally 
to  be  received  as  a  daughter  of  the  house.     It  appealed 


256  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

also  to  that  sense  of  common  human  Hfe,  which  is  the 
fine  flower  of  squiredom.  Death  levels  all;  he  had  no 
feeling  that  the  cottagers  standing  at  their  garden 
gates  were  intruding  their  curiosity,  as  was  felt  by 
Susan's  mother  for  one,  who  thought  this  public  tramp 
between  a  station  and  a  church  an  outrage  on  her 
nobility.  The  cottagers  were  his  friends  on  an  occa- 
sion like  this,  had  a  right  to  share  mourning  as  well 
as  festival  with  the  family  in  whose  interests  they  were 
hereditarily  bound  up.  He  took  comfort  from  seeing 
them  there.  They  were  his  people ;  without  them  this 
quiet  home-coming  would  have  been  incomplete. 

The  coffin  was  taken  into  the  chancel  of  the  ancient 
church,  and  set  down  over  the  brass  of  a  knightly 
Clinton  who  had  died  and  been  buried  there  five  cen- 
turies before.  Almost  without  exception  those  who 
followed  it  were  his  direct  descendants,  and  the  same 
stones  surrounded  them  as  had  sheltered  the  mourners 
at  his  funeral.  So  many  years,  so  little  change ! 
Christening,  marriage,  burial — the  renewal  of  life  in  the 
same  stock  had  gone  on  through  the  centuries.  This 
new  burial  was  only  a  ripple  in  the  steady,  pauseless 
flow,  and  would  have  been  no  more  if  the  head  of  the 
house  himself  had  lain  where  this  poor,  foolish,  erring 
girl,  now  hardly  regretted,  and  soon  to  be  forgotten, 
was  laid. 

A  few  prayers  were  said,  and  a  hymn  sung,  and  then 
she  was  left  to  lie  there  alone.  Shafts  of  sunlight 
would  slant  across  the  stones,  and  fading,  give  place 
to  twilight,  then  to  dusk,  then  to  darkness.    The  church 


This  Our  Sister  257 

would  be  very  still.  Dawn  would  come,  with  the  sweet 
twittering  of  birds,  and  the  sun  would  once  more  strike 
through  the  armorial  glass  of  the  East  window,  and 
paint  stone  and  timber  with  bright  colour ;  and  still  she 
would  be  lying  there,  dead  to  the  glory  of  a  new  day 
as  she  had  been  dead  to  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
Nothing  would  matter  to  her  any  more.  In  a  little 
while  her  dust  would  mingle  with  that  of  long 
generations  of  Clintons  forgotten,  and  her  memory 
would  pass  away  as  theirs  had  passed.  Her  life  had 
been  everything  to  her,  her  wants  and  hopes  and  regrets 
the  centre  of  her  being.  Now  it  was  as  if  it  had  never 
been — for  her,  lying  in  the  still  church. 

But  her  acts  lived.  The  ripples  she  had  caused  in 
the  pond  of  life  would  spread,  intersecting  other  ripples 
caused  by  other  acts,  until  they  reached  the  border. 

When  they  had  returned  to  the  house  Nancy  w^ent 
up  with  Joan  into  her  room — the  room  in  which  they 
had  slept  side  by  side  for  all  but  a  few  nights  in  their 
lives  until  Nancy's  marriage.  There  was  only  one  bed 
in  the  room  now. 

"  How  odd  it  looks !  "  said  Nancy.  "  Do  you  miss 
me,  my  precious  old  Joan?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Joan.  "  I  had  to  make  them 
take  your  bed  out.     It  made  me  feel  so  horribly  lonely." 

"  If  John  is  ever  unkind  to  me,"  said  Nancy,  "  I 
shall  come  here  and  have  it  put  back." 

She  checked  herself.  No  vestige  of  a  joke  was  to  be 
allowed  until  after  to-morrow.  She  thought  herself 
unfeeling  for  even  inclining  to  light  speech.     To  her 


258         The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

and  Joan  the  death  of  someone  not  much  older  than 
themselves  was  a  startling  thing;  and  the  death  of  any- 
one so  close  to  them,  in  their  inexperience  of  death, 
would  have  subdued  them  for  a  time. 

"  Let's  go  and  talk  in  the  schoolroom,"  Nancy  said. 
"  Nobody  will  come  there." 

They  sat  together  on  the  old  comfortable  sofa,  arms 
entwined.  The  absence  of  sentiment  with  which  they 
had  been  accustomed  to  treat  one  another  had  given 
place  to  frequent  signs  of  affection.  They  had  hardly 
been  more  together  during  their  childhood  than  since 
Nancy  had  come  to  Kencote  after  her  honeymoon  the 
day  before.  Their  stream  of  talk  flowed  unceasingly. 
Oceans  of  separate  experience  had  to  be  bridged. 

Now  the}^  put  aside  for  a  time  their  own  affairs  of 
the  past  and  future,  and  talked  about  the  immediate 
present. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  Humphrey  ?  "  Joan  asked.  "  I 
didn't ;  but  I  thought  he  looked  awful." 

"  He  kissed  me  when  we  came  in,"  said  Nancy,  "  and 
said  he  was  glad  I  had  come  back  in  time.  He  spoke 
much  the  same  as  usual,  but  went  away  directly.  Joan, 
how  awful  he  must  be  feeling !  Just  think  what  John 
would  feel  if  he  were  to  lose  me !  " 

"  You  haven't  been  married  so  long,"  said  Joan ;  but 
immediately  added,  "  I  suppose  that  wouldn't  make  any 
difference,  though.  I  do  feel  frightfully  sorry  for 
Humphrey.  I  almost  think  it  would  have  been  better 
if  the  funeral  had  been  at  once,  instead  of  making  it 
like  two.     It  must  be  awful  for  him  to  think  of  her 


This  Our  Sister  259 

lying  there  all  alone  in  the  church.  You  know,  Uncle 
Tom  wanted  to  have  tapers  and  somebody  to  watch ;  but 
father  wouldn't." 

"No;  I  didn't  know  that.     Why?  " 

"  He  said  candles  were  Roman  Catholic ;  and  that 
there  would  be  nobody  who  wanted  to  watch.  I  think 
he  was  right  there.  You  know,  Nancy,  I  think  the 
saddest  thing  about  it  is  that  there  is  nobody  who  is 
very  sorry  for  poor  Susan's  death — except  Humphrey. 
I  don't  think  her  own  people  are.  None  of  them 
looked  it." 

"  Lady  Aldeburgh  cried." 

"  She  pretended  to.     Her  eyes  were  quite  dry." 

"  I  liked  Susan.     So  did  you." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way.  Perhaps  not  very  much,  I  wish  I 
had  liked  her  more,  now.  I  am  sorry,  of  course.  But 
I  feel  much  more  glad  at  having  you  again,  than  sorry 
because  she  is  dead." 

Nancy  gave  her  a  squeeze.  "  I  can't  realise  that  she 
is  dead,"  she  said,  "  that  she  was  in  that  coffin.  I 
felt  just  a  little  bit  like  choking  when  Uncle  Tom 
read  that  part  about  a  place  of  rest  and  peace.  It 
was  so  dreadful  to  think  of  her  being  dead;  but  that 
seemed  to  alter  it  all.  If  she  is  somewhere  alive  still — 
and  happy !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Joan  seriously.  "  I  hope  Humphrey 
is  thinking  about  that." 

On  the  morrow  there  was  a  difficult  time  to  get 
through  before  the  funeral,  at  twelve  o'clock.  The 
Squire  took  the  "  Times  "  into  his  room  when  it  came, 


260  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

but  only  glanced  over  it,  standing  up.  He  made  occa- 
sion to  go  to  the  Rectory,  and  to  the  Dower  House, 
and  spent  some  little  time  at  each ;  and  the  hour  came 
round. 

It  was  over  quickly.  The  large  company  walked 
and  drove  back  to  the  house,  which  stood  once  more 
normally  unshuttered,  and  ate  and  drank.  There  was  a 
buzz  of  conversation  in  the  crowded  dining-room,  which 
at  times  swelled  beyond  the  limits  of  strict  propriety, 
and  suddenly  subsided,  only  to  rise  and  sink  again. 

Departures  began  to  be  taken.  This  was  the  hardest 
time  for  the  Squire  to  go  through,  for  he  had  to  say 
something  in  answer  to  the  words  of  each.  The  end 
came  with  a  rush,  when  most  of  those  who  had  been 
staying  in  the  house,  with  those  who  had  come  down 
that  morning,  left  to  take  the  special  train  back  to 
London. 

When  the  last  carriage  had  departed  the  Squire 
turned  back  into  the  hall  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 
He  went  into  his  room  and  stood  by  the  open  window, 
breathing  deeply  of  the  soft  summer  air,  as  if  his  lungs 
had  been  cleared  of  some  obstacle.  "  Well,  that's 
over,"  he  said  aloud  as  he  turned  away. 

The  sound  of  his  words  checked  him.  He  went  to 
the  window  again,  and  looked  across  the  garden  and 
the  park  to  where  the  church  tower  showed  between  the 
trees.  "  Poor  girl !  "  he  said  slow^ly.  And  then,  after 
a  pause,  "  Poor  dear  girl !  " 

This  satisfied  him,  and  he  went  briskly  to  the  table 
where  the  newspapers  were  laid  in  order. 


BOOK    IV 


CHAPTER  I 


A   RETURN 


The  Squire  shut  to  the  gate  in  the  garden  wall  of  the 
Dower  House  and  stepped  out  across  the  park.  His 
face  was  lit  up  with  gratification,  his  step  was  as  light 
as  that  of  an  elderly  man  of  seventeen  stone  very  well 
could  be. 

He  had  been  to  see  Virginia,  and  she  had  given  him 
the  news  that  had  caused  this  elation. 

She  had  just  come  down  from  Scotland,  where  John 
Spence  had  taken  a  moor,  leaving  Dick  amongst  the 
grouse.  Mrs.  Clinton  was  there  too,  and  Joan,  and  a 
large  house-party  besides.  The  Squire  had  been  asked, 
but  it  was  many  ^^ears  since  the  twelfth  had  caused 
a  stir  in  his  movements,  and  he  had  refused.  Didn't 
care  much  about  it ;  might  come  to  them  later,  when 
they  moved  down,  for  the  pheasants.  It  was  a  not 
unpleasant  change  for  him  to  have  the  house  entirely 
to  himself.  But  he  had  got  a  little  tired  of  his  solitary 
condition  after  a  fortnight,  and  had  been  extremely 
glad  to  see  Virginia,  who  had  come  South  to  meet  a 
friend  on  her  way  from  America  to  Switzerland. 

It  seemed  that  young  Inverell — the  Earl  of  Inverell, 
twenty-seven  years  of  age,  master  of  mines  as  well  as 
acres,  handsome  and  amiable  as  well  as  high-principled 
— in  fact  the  very  type  and  picture  of  young  Earls — 

263 


264  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

whose  Highland  property  marched  with  that  which 
John  Spence  had  rented,  had  been  constantly  of  their 
party,  even  to  the  extent  of  putting  off  one  of  his  own. 

The  attraction?     Joan. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it,  Virginia  had  said. 
He  was  head  over  ears.  And  Joan  was  as  gay  as  a 
lark.  It  was  the  sweetest  thing  to  see  them  together — 
a  picture  of  adorable  youth,  and  love,  unspoken  as  yet, 
but  shining  out  of  their  eyes  and  ringing  in  their 
laughter  for  everyone  to  see  and  hear. 

She  had  enlarged  on  the  enchanting  spectacle,  and 
the  Squire  had  listened  to  her  tale,  not  so  much  because 
he  "  cared  about  that  sort  of  thing,"  but  so  as  to 
assure  himself  that  it  was  undoubtedly  a  true  one,  on 
both  sides,  and  that  Joan,  especially,  would  not  be 
likely  to  rebel  a  second  time. 

How  providentially  things  worked  out !  Young 
Inverell  was  a  'parti  beside  whom  the  eligibility  of 
Bobby  Trench  paled  perceptibly.  Bobby  Trench, 
socially  and  financially,  would  have  been  a  good  match. 
This  would  be  a  great  one.  If  it  would  not  "  lift  "  the 
Clintons  of  Kencote,  which  the  Squire  was  persuaded 
no  marriage  whatever  could  do,  it  would  at  least  point 
their  retiring  worth.  It  would  bring  them  into  that 
prominence  in  which,  to  speak  truth,  they  had  always 
been  somewhat  lacking. 

And  he  was  a  nice  young  fellow  too,  so  the  Squire 
had  always  heard ;  already  beginning  modestly  to  play 
the  part  in  public  affairs  which  was  expected  of  the 
head  of  his  house ;  untouched  as  yet  by  the  staleness  of 


A  Return  265 

the  world,  which  had  touched  Bobby  Trench  so  much 
to  the  Squire's  disgust,  until  he  had  closed  his  senses 
to  it;  and  a  fitting  mate  in  point  of  youth  and  good 
looks  for  a  beautiful  young  girl  like  Joan,  which  Bobby 
Trench  could  hardly  have  been  said  to  be,  in  spite  of 
his  ever  youthful  behaviour. 

Really,  it  was  highly  gratifying.  It  just  showed 
that  there  was  no  need  to  hurry  these  things.  If  Joan 
had  taken  the  first  person  that  came  along — a  young 
fellow  he  had  never  thought  much  of  himself,  but  had 
allowed  to  take  his  chances  out  of  old  friendship  to  his 
father — she  would  have  missed  this.  The  child  was  a 
good  child.  She  would  do  credit  to  any  station. 
Countess  of  Inverell!  Nothing  in  that,  of  course, 
but — well,  really  the  whole  thing  was  highly  gratifying. 

Why  hadn't  his  wife  written  about  it.? 

There  was  nothing  in  that.  She  always  left  out  of 
her  letters  the  things  she  might  have  known  he  would 
like  to  hear.  Virginia  was  quite  certain ;  and  she  could 
be  trusted  on  such  a  subject,  or  indeed  on  any. 

Well,  one  got  through  one's  troubles.  It  was 
extraordinary  how  sunshine  came  after  rain,  or  would 
be  if  one  didn't  believe  in  a  wise  Providence  overrulins: 
everything  for  our  good.  A  few  months  ago  there  had 
been  that  terrible  affair,  now  buried  and  forgotten 

The  brightness  left  his  face  as  his  thoughts  touched 
on  that  subject.  It  was  buried,  sadly,  though  perhaps 
mercifully,  enough;  but  it  was  not  forgotten.  It  was 
thought  of  as  little  as  possible,  but  the  debt  still 
rankled — the  debt  that  could  not  be  paid.     It  came  up 


266  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

at  nights,  when  sleep  tarried,  which  fortunately  hap- 
pened seldom.  But  time  was  adjusting  the  burden.  It 
would  not  be  felt  much  longer. 

The  thought  of  it  now  came  only  as  a  passing  shadow 
to  heighten  the  sunshine  of  the  present.  In  fact  this 
gleam  of  sunshine  seemed  to  remove  the  shadow  finally. 
He  had  done  all  that  he  could  do,  had  kept  back  noth- 
ing, had  satisfied  his  honour.  An  obligation  to  so  old 
a  friend  as  Sedbergh  need  not  weigh  on  any  man. 

It  would  be  ungrateful  not  to  recognise  how  plainly 
things  had  been  *'  ordered."  Apart  from  the  curious 
accidents  of  the  problem — the  fact  that  "  the  woman  " 
had  not  been  condemned  for  that  crime;  that  she  had 
already  paid  her  penalty ;  that  the  other  woman  had 
been  connected  in  such  a  way  that  it  had  been  possible 
to  silence  her  by  a  perfectly  innocent  transaction,  car- 
ried out  by  perfectly  innocent  people — facts  surely 
beyond  coincidence,  and  of  themselves  demanding  belief 
in  an  oven^uling  Providence — apart  from  all  this  there 
had  been  poor  Susan's  death,  no  longer  demanding  the 
least  pretence  of  lamentation,  but  to  be  regarded  as  a 
clear  sign  that  the  account  had  been  squared  and  no 
further  penalty  would  be  exacted. 

And  now  there  was  this  new  satisfaction,  as  a  further 
most  bountiful  token  of  favour.  How  was  it  possible 
that  there  could  be  those  who  did  not  believe  in  a  God 
above,  when  signs  were  so  plain  to  those  who  could  read 
them-f^  It  would  be  churlish  now  not  to  throw  oflP  all 
disagreeable  thoughts  of  the  past,  and  not  to  take  full 
pleasure  in  the  brightness  of  present  and  future. 


A  Return  267 

As  the  Squire  came  round  a  group  of  shrubs  that 
masked  the  lawn  from  the  carriage  drive  he  saw  a 
woman  approaching  the  house.  As  he  caught  sight 
of  her  she  caught  sight  of  him,  changed  her  course, 
and  came  towards  him. 

He  stopped  short  with  a  gasp  of  dismay.  It  was 
Mrs.  Amberlej. 

"  Mr.  Clinton,"  she  said,  "  J  have  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you,  but  I  expect  you  know  who 
I  am.  I  have  come  down  from  London  on  purpose 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

She  had  altered  in  no  way  that  he  could  have 
described.  She  was  fashionably  dressed,  in  a  manner 
suitable  for  the  country,  her  wonderful  hair  had  not 
lost  its  lustre,  her  face  was  still  the  beautiful  mask  of 
whatever  lurked  in  secret  behind  it.  Yet  she  seemed 
to  him  a  thing  of  horror,  degraded  and  stained  for  all 
the  world  to  see.  And  even  the  world  might  have  been 
aware  of  some  subtle  change.  Whether  it  was  that  her 
neat  boots  were  slightly  filmed  with  dust,  or  that  her 
clothes,  smart  as  they  were,  were  not  of  the  very 
latest ;  or  that  it  was  no  outward  sign,  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  disgrace  affecting  her  bearing,  however 
she  might  try  to  conceal  it — whatever  it  was,  it  was 
there.  This  was  a  woman  who  had  come  down  very  low, 
knew  that  the  world  was  against  her,  and  would  fight 
the  world  with  no  shame  for  what  it  could  still  with- 
hold from  her. 

He  stared  at  her  open-mouthed,  unable  for  the  mo- 
ment either  to  speak  or  think. 


268  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

She  laughed  at  him  elaborately.  "  You  don't  seem 
very  pleased  to  see  me,"  she  said.  "  May  we  go  into 
the  house  and  sit  down  ?  I  have  walked  from  the  station, 
and  am  rather  tired." 

"  No,"  he  said  quickly,  reacting  to  his  immediate 
impulse.     "  You  will  not  enter  my  house." 

She  looked  at  him  with  careful  insolence.  "  Shall 
we  go  into  the  churchyard.'^  "  she  said,  "  and  talk  over 
Susan  Clinton's  grave  ?  " 

The  infamous  taunt  brought  him  to  himself.  "  Come 
this  way,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  back  on  her  to  stride 
off  along  a  path  between  the  shrubs. 

She  followed  him  for  a  few  steps,  and  then,  feeling 
probably  that  this  rapid  progress  in  his  wake  did  not 
accord  with  her  dignity,  stopped  and  said,  "  Where  are 
you  taking  me  to,  please.^  I  haven't  come  here  to  look 
at  your  garden." 

He  turned  sharply  and  faced  her.  "  I  am  taking 
you  to  where  we  can  be  neither  seen  nor  heard,"  he 
said,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  That  will  suit  me  very 
well — for  a  first  conversation — as  long  as  it  is  not  too 
far,  and  I  am  not  expected  to  race  there." 

He  turned  his  back  on  her  and  went  on  again,  but 
at  a  slower  pace.  They  went  through  a  thick  shrub- 
bery and  out  on  to  a  little  sloping  lawn  at  the  edge  of 
the  lake,  which  was  entirely  surrounded  by  great  rhodo-  ' 
dendrons.  There  was  a  boat-house  here,  and  a  garden 
seat,  to  which  he  motioned  her. 

She  sat  down,  and  looked  up  at  him.     "  I  am  not 


A  Return  269 

going  to  talk  to  you  standing  over  mc  like  that,"  she 
said.     "  It  will  be  giving  you  an  unfair  advantage." 

He  sat  down  on  the  same  seat,  as  far  away  from  her 
as  possible. 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 
she  asked  him,  in  much  the  same  tone  as  a  school- 
master might  have  asked  the  question  of  an  errant 
schoolboy. 

He  said  nothing.  He  had  nothing  to  say.  His 
thoughts  were  still  in  a  turmoil. 

Perhaps  silence  was  the  best  retort  to  her  air  of 
insolence.     She  had  to  find  another  opening. 

"You  call  yourself  a  man  of  honour!"  she  said  in 
a  slow  contemptuous  voice.  "  You  pay  hush-money, 
so  that  the  innocent  may  suffer,  and  the  guilty  go  free." 

"  It's  a  lie,"  he  said.  "  I  paid  no  money.  I  refused 
to  pay  money." 

"  Ah,  then  you  did  know  everything.  It  was  what 
I  could  not  be  quite  certain  about.  The  story  was 
confused.     Thank  you  for  clearing  it  up." 

He  felt  himself  trapped  at  the  first  opening  of  his 
mouth.  He  would  need  all  his  wits  to  cope  with  this 
shameless,  cunning  woman.  He  tried  to  break  through 
her  deliberate  artifices.  "What  do  you  want.?"  he 
asked.     "  What  have  you  come  here  for?  " 

"  You  didn't  pay  the  money  yourself?"  she  went  on. 
"  That  would  hardly  have  done,  would  it  ?  You  let 
somebody  else  pay  it,  and  washed  your  hands  of  it,  I 
suppose." 

It  had  been  his  own  phrase.     Her   chance  lighting 


270  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

on  it  seemed  to  make  her  uncannil}^  aware  of  everything 
that  had  passed.  How  had  she  got  hold  of  her  informa- 
tion?    He  had  not  had  time  to  think  about  that  yet. 

"  I  refused  to  pay  anything,"  he  repeated.  "  Noth- 
ing was  paid  to  anybody  who  had  anything  to  do  with 
you.     I  refuse  to  discuss  these  affairs  with  you." 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  she  taunted  him.  "  Will  you  refuse 
to  discuss  them  when  you  are  brought  up  on  a  charge 
of  conspiracy  .P  You  will  be  allowed  to  do  it  through 
Counsel,  of  course.  They  allowed  me  Counsel,  when  I 
was  brought  up  on  a  charge  of  stealing  something  that 
a  member  of  your  family  stole.  I  wish  I  could  have 
done  without  him.  I  should  have  liked  to  defend  my- 
self. But  it  will  suit  you.  You  can  shelter  behind 
him.     You  seem  rather  good  at  that." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked  her  again.  "  What 
have  you  come  here  for.^^  " 

"  To  talk  it  over  quietly,"  she  said,  with  the  same 
mocking  intonation.  "  Do  you  want  to  know  how  I 
found  out  about  it  all.^  You  seem  to  have  forgotten 
entirely  that  I  knew  that  somebody  staying  in  the 
house  at  the  same  time  that  I  was  must  have  stolen 
the  things.  It  wasn't  very  difficult,  afterwards,  to 
decide  on  the  thief.  I  have  a  few  friends  still,  Mr. 
Clinton,  and  I  heard  that  your  precious  Susan,  whom 
every  one  knew  to  have  been  head  over  ears  in  debt, 
had  suddenly  and  miraculously  become  out  of  debt, 
and  had  money  to  throw  about.  I  had  enquiries  made, 
and  heard  that  the  woman  whom  you  bought — I  beg 
your  pardon,  whom  you  made  somebody  else  a  cat's- 


A  Return  271 

paw  to  buy,  so  as  to  save  your  own  skin,  had  been  sent 
over  to  the  other  side  of  the  water,  to  get  her  out  of 
the  way.  It  was  the  finger  of  Providence,  I  tliink, 
that  led  me  to  follow  her  up.  I  expect  you  have  been 
thinking  that  Providence  had  been  specially  engaged 
in  your  interests ;  and  it  certainly  did  look  like  it — for  a 
time." 

Again  the  uncanny  cognisance  of  his  very  thoughts  ! 
But  this  was  only  a  very  clever  woman,  who  knew  her 
man,  and  his  type. 

"  I  went  over  myself,  and  found  her,"  she  went  on. 
"  She  was  going  West  to  make  a  start  on  the  money 
that  her  poor  fool  of  a  husband  thought  had  been  given 
him  for  his  own  sweet  sake.  She  didn't  intend  to  un- 
deceive him.  At  one  time  I  had  had  an  idea  of  going 
*  West  '  myself.  You  see  I  had  been  hounded  out  of 
London  for  the  crime  that  one  of  you  Clintons  had 
committed,  and  as  you  had  so  chivalrously  left  me  to 
bear  the  burden  of  it,  and  hushed  up  the  truth,  instead 
of  clearing  my  name,  I  didn't  know  then  that  I  should 
be  able  to  come  back  again.  I  wanted  to  get  away  as 
far  as  possible." 

He  was  unendurably  taunted.  "  Your  name  couldn't 
have  been  cleared,"  he  said.  "  You  were  not  condemned 
for  that ;  it  was  for  stealing  the  other  thing ;  and  that 
will  stick  to  you  still." 

She   affected   bewilderment,   and   then   enlightenment 

seemed  to  come  to  her,  and  she  laughed.      "  Oh,  that's 

•it,   is   it?"   she   said.     "Your   mind   seems    to   run   so 

much  in   twists   and   curves   that   anyone   who   expects 


272  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

a  straight  sense  of  right  and  wrong  in  honourable 
men  must  be  pardoned  for  being  a  little  slow  in  follow- 
ing them.  But  I  didn't  steal  that  either,  you  know. 
The  sainted  Susan  stole  it  as  well  as  the  necklace — 
she  was  an  expert  in  such  things — and  this  woman 
Clark  told  my  woman  about  it — the  one  who  committed 
perjury  at  my  trial,  and  is  now  going  to  suffer  for  it, 
if  I  can  find  her." 

The  sneer  at  the  dead  girl  pierced  something  in  him 
which  set  his  brain  clear.  This  was  a  wicked  woman, 
and  she  was  lying  to  him.  "  That's  a  likely  story !  " 
he  said  with  rough  contempt,  and  she  winced  for  the 
first  time,  although,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  he 
did  not  mark  it. 

"  It  is  one  that  will  keep  for  the  present,"  she  said, 
instantly  recovering  her  coolness.  "  Well,  fortunately 
I  was  able  to  make  friends  with  Susan's  maid.  It  is 
a  way  I  have  with  that  sort  of  person,  although 
it  is  true  that  my  own  brute  of  a  woman  gave  me 
away." 

"  Yes,  she  gave  you  away,"  said  the  Squire,  more 
quick-witted  than  ordinarily. 

"  Lied  about  me,  I  ought  to  have  said,"  she  cor- 
rected herself,  with  a  blink  of  the  eyelids.  "  I  see  I 
must  be  careful  to  choose  my  words.  Words  mean  so 
much  with  you,  don't  they.^  Acts  so  little.  If  you 
can  say  you  haven't  paid  a  bribe,  it  doesn't  in  the  least 
matter  that  you  have  let  it  be  done  and  taken  advantage 
of  it.  Well,  I  made  friends  with  her  to  begin  with. 
She  had  ju«t  heard  of  Susan's  death  and  wanted  to 


A  Return  273 

talk  about  it.  She  couldn't  keep  her  foolish  mind  off 
the  connection  between  me  and  Susan,  and  spoke  in  such 
a  way  that  I  soon  knew  I  had  been  right  to  follow  her 
up.  I  drew  her  on — I  have  always  been  considered 
rather  clever,  you  know — and  before  she  knew  she  had 
done  it  she  had  let  out  her  story.  You  may  be  sure  I 
frightened  her,  when  I  could  safely  do  so,  into  telling 
me  the  whole  of  it.  I  heard  what  a  fright  dear  Hum- 
phrey was  in — a  nice  young  man  that — came  to  my 
trial,  I  believe,  jingling  the  stolen  money  in  his 
pocket." 

"  That's  not  true,"  said  the  Squire.  "  He  knew 
nothing  of  it  whatever." 

"  He  may  have  told  you  so.  But  six  or  seven  thou- 
sand pounds !  To  repeat  your  own  words :  '  That's  a 
likely  story,  isn't  it.?'" 

"  He  didn't  know.     You  can  go  on." 

**  Thank  you.  I  heard  how  he  came  posting  down 
here,  to  get  the  hush-money ;  and  how  it  came  by 
return  of  post — telegraph,  I  believe ;  I  think  he  tele- 
graphed to  the  woman,  '  Blackmail  will  be  paid,'  I 
suppose,  '  on  condition  do  not  say  from  father.'  " 

She  laughed  at  her  jest.  The  Squire  kept  miserable 
silence. 

"  Well,  there  it  is,"  she  said.  "  To  use  my  words 
more  carefully  this  time — she  gave  you  away.  You 
never  thought  you  could  be  given  away,  did  you? 
You  thought  you  were  safe.  Your  conscience  hasn't 
troubled  you  much,  I  should  think,  to  judge  by  your 
healthy    appearance.     Conscience    never    does    trouble 


274  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

cowards  much,  when  they  can  once  assure  themselves 
they  won't  be  found  out." 

In  the  turbulent  confusion  of  his  mind,  the  Squire 
still  cluner  to  certain  fixities.  He  had  acted  for  the 
best ;  he  had  acted  so  that  the  innocent  should  not 
suffer ;  and  if  he  himself  had  been  amongst  the  innocent 
who  were  to  escape  suffering,  his  own  safety  had  not 
been  his  chief  thought.  And  if  his  actions,  or  his 
refraining  from  action,  had  added  to  the  burden  justly 
borne  by  the  guilty,  that  had  been  inevitable  if  the 
innocent  were  to  be  saved;  in  any  case  it  had  added 
so  little  that  he  could  not  be  blamed  for  ignoring  it. 
Cowardice  at  least,  he  had  thought,  was  no  crime  that 
could  ever  be  laid  to  his  charge,  and  he  had  not  shown 
it  when  he  had  braved  all  consequences  in  refusing 
to  lift  a  finger  to  avert  the  disaster  that  was  now, 
in  spite  of  all,  threatening  him. 

But  she  was  dragging  from  him  all  his  armour,  piece 
by  piece.  He  let  it  go,  and  clung  to  his  naked  man- 
hood. 

"  You  may  say  what  j^ou  like,"  he  said,  squaring 
himself  arid  looking  out  over  the  water  in  front  of 
him.  "  I  simply  stood  aside.  What  could  you — no, 
not  you,  what  could  anyone — have  expected  me  to  do.'' 
Publish  the  truth — overwhelm  the  innocent  with  the 
guilty;  and  all  for  what.''  For  nothing.  You  were 
free.     You " 

"  Free !  Yes.  They  had  let  me  out  of  prison,  that's 
quite  true.  Would  you  consider  yourself  free  with  that 
taint  hanging  over  you.''     Was   I  free  to  come  back 


A  Return  275 

to  my  friends?  Was  I  free  even  to  settle  down  any- 
where where  my  story  was  known?  Susan,  the  thief, 
was  to  be  sheltered,  because  she  bore  the  honoured  name 
of  Clinton.  She  was  to  go  free.  Yes.  But  /,  who 
had  taken  her  punishment,  was  to  be  left  to  bear  the 
bitter  results  of  it  all  my  life.  What  meanness !  What 
base  cowardice !  " 

He  hardened  himself,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Susan  had  stolen  this  necklace,  worth  thousands 
of  pounds,"  she  went  on.     "  She  had " 

"  But  not  the  jewel  that  you  were  imprisoned  for 
stealing,"  he  put  in  again. 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  she  did ;  and  I  can 
prove  it  by  that  woman's  evidence." 

He  wavered,  but  stuck  to  his  point.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve it,"  he  said,  "  and  you  can  leave  it  out." 

"  I  will,  because  it  doesn't  reall}^  matter  whether 
you  believe  it  or  not.  You  will  believe  it  when  you 
see  her  in  the  witness-box." 

"  You  won't  get  her  into  the  witness-box,  to  swear 

to  that." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see.  There's  no  sense  in  haggling 
with  you  over  that.  We  will  leave  it  out,  as  you 
advised.  I  was  talking  about  Susan.  She  and  your 
precious  Humphrey  had  spent  the  money  that  they 
had  got  from  the  sale,  or  pawning,  or  whatever  it  was, 
of  the  pearls  she  had  stolen." 

"  I  have  already  said,"  he  interposed  quietly,  "  that 
Humphrey  knew  nothing  of  it." 

"  And  I  have  already  said,  '  That's  a  likely  story ! ' 


276  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

However,  we  need  not  press  the  point  now.  Say  she 
had  had  all  the  money  if  you  like,  and  that  he — dear 
innocent — never  noticed  that  she  was  spending  some 
thousands  of  pounds  more  than  he  allowed  her.  If 
you  like  to  believe  that  it's  your  affair;  we  shall  have 
plenty  of  opportunities  of  judging  what  view  other 
people  will  take  of  it,  by  and  by.  At  any  rate,  the 
money  was  spent — the  stolen  money — and  you,  a  rich 
man,  can  sit  down  quietly  and  let  somebody  else  bear 
the  loss  of  it." 

He  knew  he  was  giving  himself  into  her  hands,  but 
he  could  not  help  himself.  "  That's  not  true,"  he 
said. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  lip  curling.  "  Oh !  you  sent 
it  back — anonymously  perhaps.  You  did  have  that 
much  honesty." 

"  You  can  make  what  use  of  the  admission  you  like," 
he  said.  "  I  told  Lord  Sedbergh  the  story,  and  offered 
him  the  money." 

This  set  her  a  little  aback.  "  He  knows  the  truth, 
then,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Another  man  of  honour !  He 
lets  me  lie  under  the  stigma  of  having  stolen  something 
that  he's  got  the  price  of  in  his  pocket  all  the  time. 
Upon  my  word !  You're  a  pretty  pair !  I'm  not  cer- 
tain that  he's  not  worse  than  you  are." 

He  struggled  with  himself,  but  only  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "  He  refused  to  take  the 
money." 

She  was  quick  to  take  that  up.  "  Oh !  I  see.  Dear 
me,  how  I  should  have  enjoyed  being  present  at  that 


A  Return  277 

interview.  You  go  to  him  with  the  delightful  proposal 
that  he  shall  make  himself  party  to  your  meanness, 
and  he  refuses.  Yes.  I  suppose  he  would.  I've  no 
reason  to  suppose  there  are  txvo  men  of  supposed 
honour  who  could  act  quite  as  vilely  as  you  have  done. 
Come  now,  Mr.  Clinton,  I've  given  you  a  piece  of 
gratuitous  information.  Supposing  you  return  it  by 
telling  me  what  he  said  to  yo\i.  Did  he  tell  you  what 
he  really  thought  of  you,  or  only  hint  it?  " 

"  Oh,  let's  have  an  end  of  this,"  he  said,  with  agonised 
impatience.  "What  have  you  come  here  for.^  What 
do  you  want.^  " 

Her  manner  changed.  "  Yes,  we  will  have  an  end  of 
it,"  she  said,  with  quick  scorn.  "  It's  useless  to  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  your  meanness,  and  how  I  despise 
your  cowardice.  I  should  have  respected  you  much 
more  if  you  had  paid  your  blackmail  down  like  a  man, 
and  then  kept  quiet  about  it,  instead  of  running  snivel- 
ling about  trying  to  salve  your  own  conscience.  But 
a  man  who  can  believe  as  you  have  has  no  shame. 
You  can't  touch  him  by  showing  him  up  to  himself. 
You  can,  though,  by  making  him  pay  for  it.  And 
I'm  going  to  make  you  pay — to  the  last  rag  of  reputa- 
tion you've  got  left." 

She  clenched  her  fist,  and  bent  towards  him  fiercely. 
On  his  fathomless  trouble  her  change  of  attitude  made 
no  new  impression.  What  mattered  it  whether  she 
sneered  or  stormed.'^  The  truth  would  be  known;  the 
pit  of  disgrace  was  already  yawning  for  him. 

"  I  can't  touch  Susan,"  she  went  on.     "  If  I  could, 


278  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I'd  drag  lier  out  of  her  grave  and  set  her  up  for  all 
the  world  to  mock  at." 

The  intensity  with  which  she  said  this  affected  him 
not  merely  to  liorror.  He  began  to  see  dimly  what  an 
adversary  he  had  to  cope  with,  and  the  burning  rage 
against  circumstance  that  must  consume  her.  Even 
if  all  he  had  comforted  himself  with  was  true — if  she 
was  guilty  of  stealing  the  diamonds,  and  had  suffered 
for  that  alone — still,  she  had  suffered  for  Susan's  crime. 
For  if  Susan  had  been  found  out,  she  would,  or  might, 
have  gone  undetected.  How  that  knowledge  must 
smoulder  or  blaze  in  her  mind,  night  and  day — all  the 
worse  if  she  was  partly  guilty !  He  might  expect  no 
mercy  from  her. 

"  I  will  make  her  name  a  mockery,"  she  cried,  "  and 
I'll  make  yours  stink  in  the  nostrils  of  every  decent 
honest  man  and  woman  in  the  country.  I've  only  to 
tell  my  story.  You  can't  deny  it ;  you  won't  be  allowed 
to.  But  I'll  do  more  than  that.  I'll  make  you  stand 
where  I  stood ;  first  in  the  police  court,  then  in  the 
dock — you  and  Humphrey  together,  and  your  other 
son  too  and  his  wife,  who  paid  the  money.  Tell  your 
story  then,  and  see  what's  thought  of  you !  Some  of 
them  may  get  off — but  you  won't.  You'll  go  w^here  I 
went — to  a  vile  and  horrible  prison,  where  you'll  be 
with  the  scum  of  the  earth;  where  you'll  have  plenty 
of  time  to  think  it  all  over,  and  whether  it  wouldn't 
have  been  better  for  you,  after  all,  to  tell  the  truth 
and  shame  the  devil, — you  dastardly  coward !  " 

Her  voice  had  risen  almost  to  a  shriek.     He  looked 


A  Return  279 

round  him,  in  fear  that  it  would  bring  someone  to  the 
scene.  But  the  lake  was  retired,  and  seldom  visited. 
They  were  quite  alone. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  move  away,"  she 
siiid  in  a  voice  more  controlled,  but  still  quivering  with 
rage.  "  You  can't  run  away.  You'll  have  to  face 
it  now ;  you  and  your  whole  family,  guilty  and  innocent. 
I'll  make  you  suffer  through  them,  as  well  as  in  your- 
self. You'll  never  wipe  off  the  blot,  never  in  all  your 
life,  not  even  when  you  come  out  of  prison  and  come 
back  here — a  man  that  nobody  will  speak  to  again, 
for  all  your  wealth  and  position.  You  can  think  of 
that  when  you're  in  your  cell.  They  give  you  plenty 
of  time  to  think.  It's  not  more  than  /  suffered ;  it's  not 
so  much,  because  I  was  innocent.  But  I'd  no  children 
and  grandchildren  to  make  it  worse.  You  have.  It's 
your  name  you've  blackened.  Clinton  will  mean  thief, 
and  conspirator,  and  everything  that's  vile  long  after 
you  are  dead." 

He  had  heard  enough.  He  got  up,  tunied  his  back 
on  her,  and  began  to  walk  very  slowly  across  the 
little  lawn,  his  head  bent.  She  watched  him  with  a 
look  of  hate,  which  gradually  faded  to  scorn,  then 
to  cunning,  then  to  expectation.  But  it  became  dismay 
when,  having  crossed  the  grass,  he  did  not  turn,  but 
kept  on  between  the  shrubs,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  her, 
and  were  going  to  leave  her  there  alone. 

She  had  to  call  to  him.     "  Where  are  you  going  .^  " 

He  turned  at  once,  and  the  look  on  his  face  might 
have  made  her  pity  him,  if  she  had  had  any  pity  in  her. 


28-0  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  You  must,  do  what  jou  will,"  he  said.  "  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

Then  he  turned  from  her  again,  and  pursued  his 
slow,  contemplative  walk  along  the  path,  his  shoulders 
bent,  his  steps  dragging  a  little,  like  those  of  an  old 
man. 


CHAPTER    II 

PAYMENT 

She  forced  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  there's  a  lot  more  to  be 
said,"  she  called  after  him,  in  a  voice  almost  gay. 
"  Please  come  back." 

He  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  went  on. 

She  sprang  up,  a  look  of  alarm  on  her  face,  and  took 
a  few  quick  steps  across  the  grass. 

"  Mr.  Clinton  !  "  she  said.  "  Mr.  Clinton  !  I  have  a 
proposal  to  make  to  you." 

He  stopped  and  turned  then.  She  expected  him  to 
come  back  on  to  the  lawn ;  but  he  stood  still,  and  she 
had  to  go  up  the  path  to  him. 

She  lifted  her  face,  that  some  men,  but  not  he,  would 
have  called  beautiful,  to  his,  and  smiled. 

"  It  needn't  happen,  you  know,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  understand  in  the  least,  and  looked  his 
puzzlement — and  his  disgust  of  her.  She  dropped  her 
eyes,  and  her  seductive  manner  at  the  same  time. 
"  Come  and  sit  down  again,"  she  said,  "  and  let  us  talk 
sensibly.  I  have  worked  off  my  anger.  Now  kt  us 
see  what  can  be  done." 

A  slight  gleam  of  hope  came  to  him.     Perhaps — now 

Susan    was    dead — she    would   see     .     .     .     she    could 

gain  nothing.     .     . 

381 


282  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

He  followed  her  to  the  seat  obediently,  and  sat 
down. 

"  I  have  told  you  what  I  think  of  you,"  she  said, 
speaking  now  coolly  and  evenly.  "  I  had  to  do  that 
to  clear  my  mind.  You  have  treated  me  with  the 
meanest  cruelty,  and  I  mean  every  word  I  have  said 
to  you.  I  have  suffered  bitterly,  and  perhaps  I  have 
succeeded  in  showing  you  that  I  have  it  in  my  power 
to  make  you  suffer  in  the  same  way.  Revenge  is  very 
sweet,  and  I  have  tasted  a  little  of  it.  But,  after  all, 
it  can't  do  away  with  the  past ;  and  its  savour  soon 
goes.  I  shan't  gain  much  by  punishing  you,  though 
you  ouglit  to  be  punished." 

"  No,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  You  can  gain  nothing. 
And  look  at  the  terrible — awful  suffering  you  would 
bring  upon  those  who  are  innocent  of  any  offence 
against  you." 

"  Quite  so,"  she  said  coolly.  "  I  am  glad  you  realise 
that.     I  meant  you  to." 

"  It  would  be  inhuman,"  he  went  on.  "  You  would 
never  be  forgiven  for  it — in  this  world  or  the  next." 

She  laughed,  this  time  without  affectation.  "  You 
are  really  rather  funny,"  she  said.  "  Well  now,  what 
do  you  suggest.''  That  I  shall  hold  my  tongue  and  go 
away?  Back  to  America,  for  instance,  and  settle  down 
there  for  good,  perhaps  under  another  name.^  " 

He  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  "  You  would  do 
that?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  might  be  persuaded  to.  I  am 
not  unreasonable." 


Payment  283 

"  If  you  did  that,"  he  broke  out,  his  face  aflame, 
"  the  blessing  of  the  innocent  would  be  yours  to 
the  end  of  your  life.  You  would  be  their  saviour; 
you " 

"  I  suppose  I  should,"  she  interrupted  dryly.  "  I 
should  like  that.  But  the  trouble  is,  you  see,  that  one 
can't  live  on  the  blessing  of  the  innocent.  It  isn't 
sustaining  enough.  And  I  have  very  little  to  live 
on." 

The  light  died  slowly  out  of  his  face  as  he  listened 
to  her. 

"  You  must  help  me,"  she  said.  "  You  are  a  rich 
man,  and  you  can  do  it.  You  allowed  money  to  be 
paid  before,  to  hush  up  this  scandal ;  you  offered  a  very 
large  sum  of  money  to  free  yourself  of  a  mere  dis- 
agreer.ble  feeling  of  indebtedness,  and  took  some  risk 
in  doing  it  too — I  give  you  that  much  justice.  I  am 
glad  Lord  Sedbergh  refused  that  money.  Nov/  you 
can  lend  it  to  me — I  will  pay  you  back  some  day — and 
a  few  thousands  more.  Let  me  have  ten  tliousand 
pounds,  Mr.  Clinton.  You  can  ease  your  conscience 
of  the  wrong  you  have  done  me,  and  save  your  inno- 
cents at  the  same  time — yourself,  who  are  not  innocent, 
into  the  bargain." 

Perhaps  she  had  mistaken  the  motives  which  had 
led  him  to  refuse  to  pay  money  to  Gotch,  and  really 
thought  that  he  had  done  it  only  to  save  his  ov/n  skin, 
knowing  that  it  would  be  paid  elsewhere;  in  which  case 
nothing  in  this  proposal  would  shock  him.  Or  per- 
haps  she   relied   overmuch   on   having   frightened   him 


284  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

into  acquiescence  with  any  proposal.  Otherwise,  with 
all  her  powers  of  finesse,  she  would  hardly  have  plumped 
out  her  demand  in  this  careless  fashion. 

She  had  restored  him  in  some  degree  to  himself. 
"  What ! "  he  cried,  his  brows  terrifically  together. 
"  After  all  you  have  said,  you  now  want  me  to  pay 
blackmail  to  you.  It's  an  impudent  proposal ;  and  I 
refuse  it." 

She  was  quick  to  see  her  error.  If  he  wanted  his 
susceptibilities  soothed,  she  was  quite  ready  to  do  that. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  absurd,"  she  said.  "  I  never  really 
thought  that  you  had  looked  on  that  transaction  as 
blackmail;  I  only  said  so  because  I  wanted  to  make 
you  smart.  Is  it  likely  that  I  should  be  fool  enough 
to  suggest  such  a  thing  to  you.?  Besides,  whatever  you 
may  think  of  me,  I  am  not  a  blackmailer;  it  wouldn't 
suit  my  book.  You  are  not  very  clever,  you  know, 
Mr.  Clinton.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  want,  and  why  I 
think  you  ought  to  help  me  to  get  it,  as  carefully  as 
I  can;  and  you  must  listen  to  me  and  try  and  under- 
stand it." 

Poor  man !  How  could  he  help  listening  to  her,  with 
so  much  at  stake ! 

"  The  mischief  is  done,"  she  said.  "  I  am  innocent, 
but  I  am  smirched — poor  me ! — and  although  I  could 
make  you  suffer,  and  would,  I  tell  you  frankly,  if  I 
could  do  it  without  hurting  myself,  I  don't  believe  I 
could  ever  get  bacjv — not  all  the  way.  I  don't  know 
that  I  want  to  try;  I  am  not  young  now,  whatever  I 
look,   and   I   have  no   heart   for   the   struggle.     I   am 


Payment  285 

young  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  enjoy  my  life,  if  I  can 
begin  it  again,  in  quite  new  surroundings,  and  not 
dogged  by  poverty.  It  isn't  much  I  want.  What  is 
ten  thousand  pounds  for  hfe  to  a  woman  hke  me,  who 
has  spent  that  in  a  year.^^  I  have  something  of  my  own, 
but  not  much.  Tliis  would  make  me  secure  against 
that  horrible  wolf  at  the  door,  which  frightens  me 
more  than  anything." 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  silenced  him  with  a 
lift  of  the  hand,  and  said,  "Let  me  go  on,  please. 
Why  should  you  give  it  to  me?  you  were  going  to  ask — 
I  drop  the  pretence  of  a  loan,  though  you  can  call 
it  that  if  you  like.  Because  you  are  the  only  person 
I  can  ask  it  of.  It  is  compensation ;  and  nobody  but 
you — except  Humphrey,  of  course — has  offended 
cigainst  me.  Sedbergh  thinks  I  stole  the  star,  and  so 
does  Mary  Sedbergh,  and  it  is  true  that  that  is  all  I 
was  actually  found  guilty  of.  Under  the  circumstances 
they  are  not  to  be  blamed.  The  coincidences — and  the 
perjury — were  too  strong  for  me.  They  owe  me  noth- 
ing— except  out  of  kindness  to  an  old  friend  whom 
they  had  done  injustice  to." 

"  If  you  want  me  to  listen  to  you  in  patience,"  said 
the  Squire  angrily,  "  you'll  drop  that  impudent  pre- 
tence of  not  having  stolen  the  star.  My  daughter  saw 
you  at  the  cupboard ;  and  you  would  have  stolen  the 
necklace  if  you  could.  You  hardly  take  the  trouble 
to  hide  that  you're  lying.  You  must  take  me  for  a 
fool." 

"  Shall  I  drop  it }  "  she  asked.     "  I  think  perhaps  I 


286  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

will,  with  you.  It  is  quite  safe.  I  can  take  it  up  again 
if  you  drive  me  to  action ;  and  nobody  will  believe 
that  I  could  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  admit  to  you 
that  I  had  stolen  it." 

"  You  infamous  creature !  "  he  cried.  "  That  was 
the  plea  you  used  before.  It  didn't  save  you,  and  it 
won't  save  you  this  time." 

She  saw  that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  but  answered, 
"  Well,  no ;  perhaps  it  wouldn't  save  me.  But  you  see 
the  question  wouldn't  arise.  If  I  did  take  it,  I  couldn't 
be  punished  for  taking  it  twice.  I  could  confess  it 
to  all  the  world  now,  and  nothing  further  would  happen. 
Besides,  you  see,  it  will  be  you  who  will  be  standing  in 
the  dock,  for  an  offence  into  which  the  question  of  the 
star  wouldn't  come." 

His  eyes  dropped.  Her  specious  reasoning — before 
she  had  made  the  mistake  of  interrupting  it  with  her 
insolent  cynicism — had  made  some  way  with  him,  and 
allowed  his  mind  to  detach  itself  ever  so  Ifttle  from  that 
frightful  picture. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  be  prepared  to  face  that,"  she  said, 
pursuing  her  recovered  advantage ;  "  and  it  would  be 
too  absurd — quixotic.  The  same  reasons  hold  good 
here  as  they  did  before,  when  3^ou  allowed  silence  to  be 
kept,  and  were  prepared  to  pay  not  much  less  than  I 
ask  for.  You  save  your  children  as  well  as  yourself. 
Think  what  it  would  mean  for  that  young  girl  of  yours, 
when  the  time  came  for  her  to  be  married." 

Ah !  That  was  a  sharper  pang  than  she  knew.  Oh, 
for  the  sunny  satisfaction  of  that  walk  across  the  park 


Payment  287 

back  again!     And   the   sun  shining  now   en   his   black 
misery  had  only  shifted  a  point  or  two. 

"  And  the  other  one,"  went  on  the  cool  voice,  "  who 
was  married  the  other  day.  Their  father  in  the  dock ! 
in  prison !  " 

He   rallied   again.     "  You   can   drop   that   nonsense 
too,"  he  said.     "  It's  a  bogy  that  doesn't  frighten  me." 
"  Not  the  dock?     I  admit  that  you  might  escape  the 
prison — though  Humphrey  couldn't  very  well." 

"  Whatever  mistake  I  may  have  made — and  I'm  not 
yet  prepared  to  admit  that  I  made  any — I  did  nothing 
that  I  could  be  even  asked  to  justify  in  a  court  of 
law." 

"  Well,  I  think  you're  wrong  there.  But  in  any  case 
you  would  fear  the  court  of  your  friends  and  neighbours 
and  the  whole  public  opinion  of  England  hardly  less 
than  a  court  of  law,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

This  was  so  true  that  he  showed  his  sense  of  it  in 
his  face. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  good  man,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish 
as  to  run  the  risk  of  it?  Look  here,  Mr.  Clinton,  sup- 
posing I  admit  the  theft  of  the  star,  and  say  that  I 
have  deserved  what  I  got  for  that,  do  I  really  suffer 
nothing  whatever  by  bearing  the  burden  of  Susan's  far 
bigger  theft  all  my  life?  Be  honest  now.  Take  it  as  a 
woman's  weakness.  Wouldn't  it  mean  a  good  deal  to 
me  to  be  cleared  of  that?" 

She  waited  for  his  answer,  which  was  slow  in  com- 
ing. He  fought  hard  against  his  inclination  to  give 
an  evasive  one.     "  Yes — it  might — it  would,"  he  said. 


288  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  Then  I  bear  it,  and  save  her  name,  noAV  she  is 
dead ;  and  your  name.  I  save  the  honour  of  you 
CHntons,  who  think  so  much  of  yourselves.  If  I  do 
that,  and  allow  the  shame  you  have  fastened  on  to  me 
to  rest  where  it  is,  don't  I  deserve  some  little  kindness 
from  you — some  help  in  the  life  I  shall  have  to  live, 
right  away  from  all  that  has  ever  made  my  life  worth 
living  to  me  before,  right  away  from  all  my  friends.? 
I  should  get  some  of  them  back,  you  know,  if  it  were 
known  that  that,  at  least,  wasn't  true  of  me." 

Her  voice  was  pleading.  It  affected  him  no  more 
than  by  the  sense  of  the  words  it  carried.  Perhaps  if 
this  I' ad  been  her  tone  from  the  first  it  might  have 
done  so. 

But  the  words  themselves  did  affect  him.  They  were 
true.  If  it  could  be  regarded  as  only  help  that  she 
wanted ! 

"  This  time,"  she  said,  "  you  wouldn't  be  doing 
injury  to  a  living  soul.  You  would  only  be  doing  some- 
thing towards  setting  right  a  wrong.  You  wouldn't 
even  be  doing  anything  that  the  law  would  blame  you 
for.  Susan  is  dead.  There  is  nobody  who  could  be 
prosecuted." 

"  I  could  pay  Sedbergh  his  money,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Yes,  you  could  do  that,"  she  took  him  up  eagerl3^ 
"  Honourably,  now.  He  could  take  it  without  any 
scruple.  The  Sedberghs  would  be  sorry  for  me,  I 
think.  They  would  be  glad  that  I  had  been  helped. 
They  couldn't  blame  you.     And  who  else  could  .^^  " 

The  Squire  knitted  his  brows  hard,  and  tried  to  think, 


Payment  289 

but  couldn't.  He  could  only  feci.  Release  might  be 
in  view  from  the  chains  that  already  seemed  to  have 
besun  to  rust  on  him. 

I  can't  see  my  way,"  he  said.     "  I  must  tJiink  it 


-B' 


over." 


With  her  eyes  fixed  sharply  and  anxiously  on  him, 
she  had  seemed  to  be  reading  his  very  thoughts.  She 
had  influenced  him ;  she  could  do  nothing  more  by 
repetition  of  her  plea ;  he  must  have  time  to  think  it 
over — and  ivoiild  have  time,  whatever  she  might  say ; 
he  was  that  sort  of  man. 

She  rose  from  the  seat.  "  I  know  you  must  have 
time,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that  the  sum  I  ask  for  is  a 
large  one,  especially  if  you  are  going  to  add  another 
seven  thousand  on  to  it ;  but  I  can't  take  less.  I  won't 
take  less.  But  remember  what  it  buys  you,  Mr.  Clin- 
ton, when  you  think  it  over.  If  you  refuse  me  this 
money  which  you  owe  me  for  what  you  have  done  to  me, 
if  ever  man  owed  woman  anything,  I  shall  speak  out 
and  bring  it  home  to  you.  I  would  rather  have  peace 
for  the  rest  of  my  days,  and  ease,  than  perpetual 
fighting.  But  I  shall  be  ready  to  fight,  if  you  refuse 
me,  for  I  shall  get  something  out  of  that." 

He  rose  too.  "  You  needn't  go  over  all  that  again," 
he  said.  "  If  I  consider  it  right  to  do  this  I  will  do  it. 
If  not,  no  threats  will  weigh  with  me." 

"  Ver}^  well,"  she  said.  "  If  you  accept,  as  of  course 
you  will,  for  it  is  right  to  do  it,  you  will  want  to  see 
me  again  to  settle  details.  Probably  you  won't  want 
to  pay  the  money   all  at  once,   and  we   can   arrange 


290  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

that.  You  will  want  to  be  assured  that  I  shan't  come 
down  on  you  again,  that  my  silence  will  be  absolutely 
unbroken.  I  can  satisfy  you  as  to  that  too ;  I  have 
thought  out  a  way.  There  will  be  other  details  to 
settle.  You  won't  want  to  see  me  down  here  again. 
You  must  come  to  see  me  in  London.  I  will  help  you 
in  every  way  I  can." 

She  gave  him  an  address. 

"  Now  I  will  go,"  she  said.  "  Show  me  a  way  out 
without  my  passing  the  house." 

They  walked  round  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  together, 
neither  of  them  speaking  a  word.  He  took  her  to  a 
gate  leading  into  a  lane.  "  If  you  follow  that  to  the 
left,"  he  said,  "  you  will  come  to  the  village." 

She  went  through  the  gate  which  he  held  open  for 
her.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  out  of  level 
eyes,  and  said  before  she  walked  away :  "  If  you  do 
what  I  ask,  you  will  hear  nothing  more  of  me  after  we 
have  settled  matters.  If  you  don't,  I  will  punish  you 
somehow — in  addition — for  not  receiving  me  into  your 
house." 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    STRAIGHT    PATH 

"  Mr.  Clinton  has  had  to  go  to  Bathgate,  ma'am.  He 
told  me  to  say  he  would  dine  at  the  club  and  might  be 
late  home.  He  partic'ly  asked  that  you  and  Miss 
Joan — ^fiss  Clinton — shouldn't  sit  up  for  him." 

The  old  butler  gave  his  message  as  if  there  was  more 
behind  it  than  appeared  from  his  words.  Mrs.  Clinton, 
standing  in  the  hall,  in  her  travelhng  cloak,  looked 
puzzled  and  a  little  anxious.  It  was  unlike  her  hus- 
band not  to  be  at  home  to  meet  her,  especially  when  she 
and  Joan  were  returning  from  so  comparatively  long  a 
visit — and  there  was  something  so  very  interesting  to 
talk  about.  And,  although  he  frequently  lunched  at 
the  County  Club  in  Bathgate,  he  had  not  dined  there 
half  a  dozen  times  since  their  marriage. 

"  Is  Mr.  Clinton  quite  well.?  "  she  asked,  preparing  to 
move  away. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  don't  think  he  is  quite  well.  We've 
all  noticed  it.  Or  it  seems  more  as  if  he  was  worried 
about  something.  But  he's  not  eating  well,  ma'am,  and 
not  sleeping  well." 

"  Poor  father !  "  said  Joan,  standing  by  her  mother. 
"  We've  been  too  long  away  from  him.  We'll  cheer 
him  up,  and  soon  put  him  right,  mother." 

Mrs.  Clinton  went  to  bed  at  half-past  ten,  as  usual. 

291 


292  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

The  Squire  came  home  at  eleven  o'clock.  It  was  the 
hour  when  he  expected  her  to  have  her  light  out,  if  he 
should  come  up  then. 

He  went  straight  to  her  room.  It  was  in  darkness. 
"  Well,  Nina,"  he  said  from  the  door,  "  you're  back 
safely.  Sorry  I  had  to  be  out  when  you  arrived.  I'll 
come  to  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

He  went  along  to  his  dressing-room.  Just  outside 
it,  in  the  broad  carpeted  corridor  was  Joan.  She  was 
in  a  white  dressing-gown,  her  hair  in  a  thick  plait  down 
her  back.  She  looked  hardly  older  than  the  child  she 
had  been  five  years  before. 

"  Father  dear !  "  she  said.  "  How  naughty  of  you 
to  be  away  when  we  came  home !  Have  you  heard 
about  it.?" 

Her  beautiful  eyes,  swimming  with  tender  happiness, 
looked  up  into  his.      She  had  come  close  for  his  embrace. 

"My  dear  child!"  he  said,  kissing  her.  "My  httle 
Joan ! " 

"  I  thought  you'd  be  glad,"  she  said,  nestling  to  him. 
"  I'm  so  frightfully  happy,  father." 

"  Well,  run  along  to  bed  now,"  he  said.  "  We'll  talk 
about  it  to-morrow.  You  ought  to  have  been  in  bed 
long  ago." 

"  I  know.  But  I  had  to  stop  up  and  tell  you. 
Good-night,  father." 

He  strained  her  to  him.  "  Good-night,  my  dar- 
ling!" 

He  was  not  a  man  of  endearments ;  he  had  not  called 
her  that  since  she  was  a  tiny  child.      She  flitted  along 


The  Straight  Path  203 

the  passage,  and  he  went  into  his  room  and  abut  the 
door. 

The  old  butler  came  up  to  put  out  the  lamps  in  the 
corridor.  He  had  performed  this  duty  nightly  since  he 
had  been  a  very  young  butler,  and  had  often  thought, 
as  he  passed  the  closed  doors,  of  those  who  were  behind 
them.  For  many  years  there  had  been  somebody  be- 
hind most  of  the  doors,  except  in  the  rooms  reserved 
for  visitors.  Now  there  were  only  three  left  out  of  all 
the  big  family  in  whose  service  he  had  grown  old.  He 
had  seen  all  the  children,  who  had  crowded  the  nursery 
wing,  with  their  nurses  and  governess,  grow  up  and 
leave  the  nest  one  by  one.  It  had  been  such  a  warm, 
protected  nest  for  them.  He  had  always  liked  to  £^o 
up  to  the  floor  on  which  the  nurseries  were,  and  think 
of  all  the  little  white-robed  sleepers  behind  those  doors 
as  he  passed  them.  They  were  so  safe,  tucked  up  for 
the  night,  and  so  well-off  in  that  great  guarded  house, 
where  nothing  that  might  affright  other  less  fortunate 
children  could  touch  them. 

The  nursery  w^ing  was  empty  now.  Joan  had  come 
down  to  another  room  on  the  first  floor;  he  only  had 
one  broad  passage  to  see  to  upstairs.  And  soon  she 
would  have  flown.  He  thought  of  her  with  the  affec- 
tion of  an  old  servant  as  he  put  out  the  light  outside 
her  room.  Little  Miss  Joan !  She  was  in  there  with 
her  happiness.  He  smiled  as  he  turned  from  that 
door. 

Outside  his  master's  dressing-room  his  face  became 
solicitous.     Mr.    Clinton    was    not    well — worried-like. 


294  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Well,  he  was  apt  to  worry  over-much  about  trifles. 
The  old  butler  knew  him  by  this  time.  He  had  seen 
him  weather  many  storms,  and  they  had  never,  after 
all,  been  more  than  mere  breezes.  Whatever  was  going 
on  behind  the  door  of  that  room  couldn't  be  very 
serious.  Its  occupant  was  shielded  from  all  real  wor- 
ries, except  those  he  made  for  himself.  He  was  one  of 
the  lucky  ones. 

Outside  the  big  room  of  state,  in  which  so  many 
generations  of  Clintons  had  been  born  to  the  easy  lot 
awaiting  them,  and  so  many  heads  of  that  fortunate 
house  had  died  after  enjoying  their  appointed  years  of 
honour  and  invulnerable  well-being,  his  face  cleared. 
Mrs.  Clinton  had  come  home ;  she  would  put  right  what- 
ever little  thing  was  wrong.  His  master  couldn't  reall}^ 
do  without  her,  though  he  thought  he  could.  Behind 
that  door  she  was  lying,  waiting  for  him.  He  put  out 
the  lamp. 

The  house  was  now  dark  and  silent,  though  behind 
two  of  the  three  doors  there  were  lights. 

The  Squire  went  along  the  passage  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  carrying  his  bedroom  candlestick.  He  blew  out 
the  light  directly  he  got  inside  the  room. 

When  he  had  given  his  wife  greeting,  he  said,  "  I'm 
tired  to-night.  We  must  talk  over  this  affair  of  Joan's 
to-morrow." 

"You  are  pleased,  Edward,  are  you  not.?  "  she  asked. 
"  He  is  such  a  dear  boy ;  and  they  are  very  much  in  love 
with  one  another." 

"  I  must  hear  all  about  it  to-morrow,"  he  said,  com- 


The  Straight  Path  295 

posing  himself  for  sleep.  His  usual  habit  was  to  go 
to  sleep  the  moment  he  got  into  bed ;  but  he  was  always 
ready  to  talk,  if  there  was  anything  he  wanted  to  talk 
about.  He  would  freely  express  irritation  if  he  was 
upset  about  anything,  and  it  sometimes  seemed  as  if  he 
were  ready  to  talk  all  night.  But  he  would  suddenly 
leave  off  and  say,  "  Well,  good  night,  Nina.  God  bless 
you !  "  and  be  fast  asleep  five  minutes  later.  He  never 
omitted  this  nightly  benediction.  Until  he  said  "  God 
bless  you,  Nina,"  it  was  permitted  to  her  to  speak  to 
him.  When  he  had  said  it,  he  was  officially  asleep,  and 
not  to  be  disturbed. 

He  did  not  say  it  to-night  after  his  postponement 
of  discussion,  but  his  movement  showed  that  "  good- 
night "  was  considered  to  have  been  said.  The  omis- 
sion was  ominous. 

For  a  very  long  time  there  w^as  complete  silen<?e. 
Then  the  Squire  turned  in  bed,  with  a  sound  that  might 
have  been  a  half-stifled  groan,  but  also  an  involuntary 
murmur.  Again  there  was  a  long  silence.  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton lay  quite  still,  in  the  darkness.  Then  he  turned 
again,  gently,  so  as  not  to  wake  her  if  she  were  asleep, 
and  moaned. 

Her  voice,  fully  awake,  broke  through  the  silence, 
"  Edward,  you  are  not  asleep.  Porter  said  you  were 
not  well." 

He  made  no  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned 
towards  her  and  said,  "  Inverell — he  is  coming  to  see 
me  here?  " 

"  Yes.     He  is  coming  on  Friday." 


296  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  You  must  put  him  off,  Nina.  You  must  put  off  the 
whole  thing  for  a  time." 

He  must  have  expected  an  expression  of  surprise,  or 
a  question.     But  none  came. 

"  Tliere  are  reasons  why  I  can't  consider  it  for  the 
present,"  he  said.  "  What  to  say  to  him  I  don't  quite 
know.  By  and  by,  perhaps.  Joan  is  very  young 
yet.  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  say;  we  must 
think  it  over." 

"  Edward,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  if  there  is 
trouble  hanging  over  us,  let  me  know  of  it.  Let  me  be 
prepared." 

This  reply,  so  different  from  any  that  he  could  have 
expected,  kept  him  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  took 
her  hand  in  his  and  said,  "  I  don't  know  why  you  say 
that;  I  had  mea,nt  to  keep  it  to  myself  till  the  trouble 
came;  but  I  suppose  you  can  always  see  through  me. 
Nina,  there  is  dreadful  trouble  coming  to  us.  I  hardly 
know  how  to  tell  you  about  it — how  to  begin.  There  is 
such  trouble  as  I  sometimes  think  nobody  ever  had  to 
bear  before.  Oh,  my  God!  how  shall  I  break  it  to 
you ! " 

It  was  a  cry  of  agony,  the  first  cry  he  had  uttered. 
It  rang  through  the  room.  Joan  caught  the  echo  of 
it,  and  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow,  but  dropped  it 
again  and  closed  her  eyes  on  her  happy  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  Edward !  "  Mrs.  Clinton  cried,  clinging  to  him, 
"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  suffer  like  this.  My  dear 
husband,  there  is  no  need  to  break  anything  to  me,  I 
know." 


TJie  StraicjJit  Path  297 

"  What !  "  His  voice  was  low  and  alarmed.  "  She 
has  already " 

"  Poor  Susan  told  me,"  she  said.  "  She  told  me  on 
her  death-bed." 

He  sighed  momentary  relief.  "  You  have  l^nown  for 
all  these  weeks ! "  he  said.  "  Oh,  why  didn't  you 
speak?" 

"  What  could  I  have  said?  How  could  I  have  helped 
matters?  What  was  there  to  do?  "  Her  usually  calm, 
slow  speech  was  agitated,  and  told  him  more  of  what 
she  had  gone  through  than  words  could  have  done. 
"  I  saw  you  anxious  and  troubled,  and  I  longed  for  you 
to  confide  in  me;  but  until  you  did " 

"  I  couldn't,"  he  said.  "  I  gave  Humphrey  my 
promise.  He  had  his  reasons,  but  whether  he  ought  to 
have " 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  that,"  she  said  in 
a  calmer  voice.  "  No,  I  think  he  was  wrong — to  ask 
that  I  should  be  shut  out.  I  can  help  you — I  have 
helped  you — sometimes,  Edward." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  which  was  lying  in  his.  "My 
dear,"  he  said,  "  I  want  your  help  now  very  much." 

"  We  needn't  talk  more  about  the  past,"  she  said. 
"It  is  known  now,  is  it?  You  have  heard  something 
while  I  have  been  away." 

He  told  her,  up  to  the  point  where  ^Irs.  Amberley 
had  left  him.  His  story  was  often  interrupted  by 
exclamations  of  pain  and  disgust,  as  the  intolerable 
things  that  had  been  said  to  him  through  that  long 
drawn-out  hour  of  his  torture  were  brought  to  light. 


298  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

He  went  off  into  by-paths  of  explanation,  of  self- 
justification,  of  appeal. 

She  soothed  him,  helped  him  to  tell  his  story,  was 
patient  and  loving  with  him,  while  all  the  time  almost 
insupportably  anxious  to  come  to  the  end  of  it,  and 
know  the  best  or  the  worst.  But  when  he  came  to  Mrs. 
Amberley's  plea  for  help,  stumbling  through  the 
specious  arguments  she  had  used,  as  if  for  the  thou- 
sandth time  he  were  balancing  them,  defending  them, 
inclining  towards  them,  she  kept  silence.  She  trembled, 
as  she  followed  the  workings  of  his  mind,  groping 
towards  a  decision,  with  so  little  light  to  help  him,  or 
rather  with  lights  so  crossed  that  none  shone  out 
clearly  above  the  rest.  She  thought — she  hoped — she 
knew  what  his  decision  had  been.  But  he  must  tell  her 
of  it  himself.  She  could  not  cut  him  short  with  a 
question.  The  decision  was  his.  Whatever  it  had 
been,  he  had  already  made  it.  If  it  had  been  right,  a 
question  from  her  must  have  expressed  doubt ;  if  wrong, 
censure,  or  at  least  criticism. 

"  I  think,  when  she  had  left  me,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I 
felt  no  doubt  about  what  I  was  going  to  do.  Every- 
thing she  had  said  seemed  to  be  true.  It  seems  to  be 
true  now,  when  I  repeat  it.  She  had  suffered  wrong- 
fully, and  would,  to  the  end  of  her  days.  If  I  had  let 
it  be  kept  dark  before,  and  thought  myself  right,  it 
wouldn't  be  less  right  to  keep  it  dark  now.  I  could 
pay  Sedbergh  his  money,  which  was  the  only  thing  that 
had  worried  me  badly,  after  the  rest  had  been  done,  and 
not  done  by  me.     The  disgrace  would  be  sharper  still 


The  Straight  Path  299 

if  it  came  out,  because  it  had  been  hidden  before,  and 
certain  things  might  have  been  misunderstood,  or  mis- 
represented. I  knew  she  would  do  the  worst  she  could, 
and  wouldn't  stick  at  lies.     There  was  this  marriage  of 

Joan's  to  make  or  mar Oh,  I  don't  know ;  I  can't 

think  straight  about  it  even  now.  I  thought  it  over 
for  two  days  and  nights.  I  prayed  to  God  about  it. 
Before  Him,  I  don't  know  whether  I've  done  right  or 
wrong.  I'm  bringing  misery  on  3'ou,  and  everybody  I 
love  in  the  world.  I'm  dragging  the  name  of  Clinton, 
that  has  stood  high  for  five  hundred  years,  down  in  the 
dust.     But  I  couldn't  do  it,  Nina.      I  couldn't  do  it." 

She  threw  herself  on  his  breast  weeping.  He  had 
never  known  her  weep.  "  Oh,  Edward,  my  dear,  dear 
husband,"  she  cried,  "  I  love  you  and  honour  you  more 
than  I  have  ever  done.  Our  feet  are  on  the  straight 
path.     God  will  surely  guide  them." 


CHAPTER   IV 


A   CONCLAVE 


"  Good  heavens !  What  on  earth  can  be  the  meaning 
of  this?" 

Dick  was  standing*  in  his  pyjamas  at  the  window  of 
Virginia's  bedroom.  They  were  in  a  country  house  on 
the  Yorkshire  coast,  to  which  they  had  come  for  a  few 
days  on  their  way  from  Scotland.  Letters  had  just 
been  brought  up  to  them  with  their  morning  tea. 

"What  is  it,  Dick?"  said  Virginia  from  the  bed. 
"  Give  it  to  me." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  crossed  the 
room  to  give  her  the  letter  he  had  been  reading.  As 
he  did  so  he  looked  through  the  other  envelopes  he  held 
in  his  hand.  "  Here  is  one  from  the  Governor,"  he 
said,  "  which  may  explain  it." 

The  two  letters  ran  as  follows : 

Dear  Captain  Clinton, 

I  suppose  your  father  has  told  you  of  the  conversa- 
tion he  and  I  had  together  a  few  days  ago,  and  of  his 
refusal  to  entertain  the  request  I  made  of  him,  to  which 
I  had  understood  him  to  assent.  This  is  just  a  friendly 
note  of  advice  to  you  to  help  him  to  see  how  absurd  his 
refusal  is,  and  what  it  will  entail,  not  only  to  him  but 
to  you  and  all  your  family.     I  shall  not  take  any  steps 

300 


A  Conclave  301 

for  a  day  or  two,  so  that  you  may  have  time  to  bring 
him  to  reason.  But  if  that  cannot  be  done,  I  shall  take 
the  steps  of  which  I  warned  him. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Rachel  Amberley. 

My  Dear  Dick, 

I  want  you  to  come  home  at  once.  A  very  serious 
trouble  has  arisen  with  regard  to  an  action  of  poor 
Susan's,  of  which  I  have  known  for  some  time,  but 
which  I  was  unable  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  had  thought 
we  should  hear  no  more  about  it,  but  I  am  afraid  it 
must  now  be  known.  I  wish  to  consult  you  about  any 
steps  that  can  be  taken;  but  I  fear  that  none  can. 
In  any  case  I  want  you  to  hear  the  whole  story.  Your 
mother  sends  her  love,  and  wants  you  and  Virginia  here. 
She  would  like  me  to  tell  you  the  story,  but  I  feel  I 
cannot  write  it.    You  must  wait  until  I  see  you. 

Love  to  Virginia. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

Edward  Clinton. 

Dick's  face  was  grave  enough  when  he  looked  up  from 
this  missive,  and  handed  it,  without  a  word,  to  Vir- 
ginia. 

"  Rachel  Amberley  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes — and  Susan,"  said  Dick.  "Trouble  indeed! 
Trouble  and  mystery!  I  wish  the  Governor  had  told 
me  what  it  is.  Just  like  him  to  keep  us  on  tenterhooks 
for  hours !     We  shall  have  to  start  early,  Virginia." 


302  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Virginia  was  frightened.  "  But,  Dick  dear,  what 
does  it  mean  ?  "  she  cried. 

He  went  and  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  over 
the  sea.  His  face  was  very  grave.  "  It  means,"  he 
said  slowly,  "  that  Susan  was  concerned,  somehow,  in 
that  Amberley  business;  and  she  has  found  it  out,  and 
is  asking  for  money  to  keep  it  dark." 

"  But  how  could  she  have  been  concerned  in  it  ?  Oh, 
how  dreadful,  Dick !  " 

"  She  was  at  Brummels  at  the  time."  He  pieced  his 
thoughts  together  slowly.  "  Perhaps  she  knew,  and 
took  money  to  hold  her  tongue.  She  wanted  money 
almost  as  much  as  the  other  woman.  She  did  something 
she  ought  not  to  have  done;  the  Governor  says  so. 
Something  that  she  could  have  been  punished  for,  or 
this  Amberley  woman  wouldn't  have  any  grounds  to  go 
on.  She  has  been  punished,  and  can't  be  punished  any 
more — for  that.  She  could  for  blackmail,  though.  She 
says  the  Governor  gave  way  to  her.  That  would  have 
been  extraordinarily  foolish.  He  refused  afterwards, 
though — seems  to  have  told  her  to  go  to  the  devil. 
I'm  glad  he  did  that.  Lord,  how  he  must  have  been 
rushed !     I  wish  I'd  been  there  to  lend  him  a  hand." 

"  Oh,  poor  Mr.  Clinton !  But  what  can  she  do,  Dick, 
this  woman  ?  " 

"  If  Susan   had   known !  "     He   paused.     "  She 

can't  have  been  in  it.     ..." 

"  Oh  no,  Dick ! "  Virginia  said  in  a  frightened 
whisper. 

"  No,   the   Amberley   woman   would   have  given   her 


A  Conclave  303 

away.  I  don't  think  she  has  found  out  anything.  I 
think  she  has  waited  until  she  was  free  of  everything 
herself,  and  now  proposes  to  let  out  what  she  knew  all 
the  time  about  Susan,  unless  she  is  paid  to  keep  it  to 
herself.  That  would  be  it,  or  something  like  it.  Well, 
we  shan't  know,  if  we  cudgel  our  brains  all  day.  I  must 
go  and  dress ;  and  you  must  get  up.  I'll  tell  Finch 
to  look  up  trains.     Don't  worry  about  it,  Virginia." 

They  arrived  at  Kencote  in  the  late  afternoon.  Joan 
was  on  the  platform.  Her  face  was  troubled.  Vir- 
ginia kissed  her  warmly.  "What  is  it,  darling.'^"  she 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Joan,  as  they  walked  out  of 
the  station  together.  "  It  is  something  about  Ronald. 
He  is  not  to  come  here  yet.     Oh,  what  can  it  be?  " 

"  It  isn't  an3^thing  about  Ronald,"  Virginia  said. 
"  We  know  that  much.  But  it  is  some  great  trouble, 
and  I  suppose  your  father  has  asked  him  not  to  come 
for  the  present." 

"  Yes,"  said  Joan.  "  Mother  said  she  would  tell 
me  more  after  they  had  talked  to  you  and  Dick.  Father 
has  been  indoors  all  day.  I  believe  he  is  ill.  Oh, 
Virginia,  I  am  sure  something  dreadful  is  going  to 
happen." 

They  drove  straight  to  the  house,  and  Dick  went  in 
at  once  to  his  father's  room.  The  Squire  was  sitting 
in  his  chair,  doing  nothing.  He  looked  aged  and 
grey. 

"  Well,  Dick,"  he  said,  looking  up,  without  a  smile. 
"  This  is  a  black  home-coming.     Ask  your  mother  and 


304  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Virginia  to  come  in.  Virginia  must  know.  I'll  tell  you 
the  storj  at  once." 

He  told  his  story,  without  the  circumlocutions  he  had 
used  to  Mrs.  Clinton.  His  voice  was  tired  as  he  told 
it,  and  his  narrative  was  almost  bald.  "  There  it  is," 
he  ended  up.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  right  or  not. 
Your  dear  mother  says  I  am.  I  hope  I  am.  It  means 
untold  misery  and  disgrace.  But  I  shan't  pay  her  a 
penny,  directly  or  indirectly." 

Virginia  looked  anxiously  at  Dick,  who  had  been 
sitting  with  downcast  eyes,  and  now  looked  up  at  his 
father. 

"  You  needn't  worry  yourself  about  that,  father," 
he  said. 

The  Squire's  face  brightened  a  little. 

"  You  mean  that  you  think  I'm  right,"  he  said.  "  I 
suppose  I  am.     But  I  can't  be  certain  of  it." 

"  I  can,"  said  Dick.  "  She  can  disguise  it  as 
she  likes ;  but  it's  blackmail.  We  don't  pay  black- 
mail." 

There  were  visible  signs  of  relief  at  this  uncom- 
promising statement.  The  Squire  began  to  argue 
against  it,  not  because  he  was  not  glad  it  had  been 
made,  but  to  justify  his  doubts. 

"  I  know  it's  a  difficult  case,"  said  Dick.  "  It's  a 
most  extraordinarily  difficult  case.  The  only  w^ay 
through  it  is  to  act  on  a  broad  principle,  and  stick 
to  it  through  thick  and  thin.  That's  what  you've  done, 
and  I'm  very  glad  of  it.  You  couldn't  have  done  any- 
thing else,   really,  though  you  may  think  you  could. 


A  Conclave  305 

Under  no  circumstances  do  we  pay  money  to  anybody 
to  keep  anything  dark." 

"  Money  was  paid,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  had  no  idea  whatever,"  said  Virginia,  with 
frightened  eyes. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  Dick.  "  It  wasn't  your 
fault." 

His  face  was  clouded.  "  I  can't  blame  Humphrey," 
the  Squire  said,  with  his  eyes  on  him. 

Dick  made  no  reply. 

"  He  came  on  purpose  to  ask  you,"  said  Virginia. 
"  He  didn't  try  to  keep  it  from  you." 

"  He  did  keep  it  from  me,"  said  Dick.  "  I  ought 
to  liave  known." 

"  What  should  you  have  done  ? "  asked  the  Squire. 

Dick  did  not  answer.  Mrs.  Clinton  broke  in.  "  Let 
us  leave  that  alone,"  she  said.  "  Humphrey  had  poor 
Susan  to  consider.  We  have  no  right  to  blame  him 
for  what  he  did." 

"  I  say  nothing  about  that,  for  the  present,"  said 
Dick.  '  "  I  must  think  it  over.  If  I  had  been  there  he 
would  not  have  got  the  money." 

"  He  wouldn't  have  told  you  why  he  wanted  it," 
Virginia  said.  "  I  think  you  would  have  paid  it — to 
Gotch— as  I  did." 

"You  see  how  difficult  it  all  is,  Dick,"  said  Mrs. 
Clinton.  "  At  every  moment  there  have  been  difficul- 
ties.    Do  not  think  harshly  of  poor  Humphrey." 

"  He  is  out  of  it,"  said  Dick,  "  at  the  other  side  of 
the  world.     See  what  comes  of  his  actions.    We  couldn't 


306  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

be  touched  if  it  were  not  for  that — in  any  way  that 
will  harm  us.  Susan  is  dead.  Nobody  else  had  done 
anytliing  they  could  have  been  accused  of,  or  made 
st-rry  for,  up  till  that  time." 

'*  Susan  had,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton.  "  She  was  alive 
then;  and  she  was  Humphrey's  wife.  And  wouldn't 
it  have  been  terrible  for  us  then  if  she  had  been 
punished.?  " 

Dick's  face  was  hard. 

"  Dick,  supposing  it  had  been  me !  "  said  Virginia. 

"  Oh,  my  dear ! "  he  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"  No,  but  you  must  think  of  it  in  that  way.  He 
stood  by  her.     He  couldnH  let  that  happen  to  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Dick  unwillingly,  "  when  you've  said 
that  at  every  stage  it  has  been  a  difficult  question, 
perhaps  you  have  said  all  that  can  be  said.  The  trouble 
is  that  it  is  that  payment  to  Gotch  that  is  coming 
home  to  us.  That's  wh}^,  even  if  father  had  thought 
it  right,  otherwise,  to  pay  her  this  money  now,  it  would 
have  been  the  most  foolish  thing  he  could  have  done. 
He  would  have  been  endorsing  that  transaction.  As 
it  is,  he  can  say  quite  truly  that  he  refused  to  do  it, 
and  we,  who  did  do  it,  had  no  idea  what  it  was  done  for." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  I  never 
thought  of  it  before.  The  two  things  would  have  hung 
together." 

"  She  would  have  made  further  demands,"  said  Dick. 
"  We  should  have  been  under  her  thumb." 

"  She  said  she  would  satisfy  me  of  that,*  said  the 
Squire. 


A  Conclave  307 

"  She  may  have  said  so.  She  would  have  been  too 
clever  for  you.  She  would  have  drawn  us  in,  until  we 
should  have  had  to  do  something  downright  dishonour- 
able— that  there  couldn't  have  been  any  doubt  about — 
or  defy  her  and  take  the  consequences,  as  we've  got  to 
do  now.  We  should  have  been  living  under  the  sword, 
perhaps  for  years,  never  knowing  when  it  was  going 
to  fall,  shelling  out  money  all  the  time.  Oh,  it  doesn't 
do  to  think  about !  And  no  better  off  at  the  end  of  it 
than  we  are  now." 

"  It's  true,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  wish  I'd  had  you  to 
show  it  all  so  clearly  to  me  while  I  was  going  through 
that  awful  time,  making  up  my  mind.  Oh,  Lord ! " 
He  wiped  his  brow,  damp  with  the  horror  of  thinking 
of  it. 

"  You  made  up  your  mind  without  seeing  clearly," 
said  Mrs.  Clinton.  "  You  did  what  was  right  because 
it  was  right." 

"  And  now  we've  got  to  take  our  punishment  for  it," 
said  the  poor  Squire,  with  a  wry  smile. 

"  That  is  what  we'd  better  talk  about,"  said  Dick. 
"  The  other  is  all  over.     We  can  talk  about  that  later." 

"  Herbert  Birkett  is  coming  down  to-morrow,"  said 
the  Squire.  "  I  wrote  and  told  him  he  must,  and  he 
sent  me  a  wire.  He  is  playing  golf  at  North  Berwick. 
It  is  her  threat  of  an  action  for  conspiracy  that  I  want 
to  ask  him  about." 

"  That's  bluff,"  said  Dick.  "  Who  conspired  to  do 
what?  Humphrey  is  out  of  the  country.  He  had 
better  stay  there.     She  can't  get  at  him.     Everybody 


808  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

else  is  blameless.  You  refused,  and  you  were  the  only 
one  besides  him  who  knew  anything  about  it." 

"  I  can't  prove  that,  and  she  won't  stick  at  lies." 

"  That's  true  enough.  But  you  can  prove  it.  She 
will  have  to  get  the  Gotches  over  to  prove  anything 
at  all,  and  his  evidence  will  clear  you.  Besides,  you 
refused  her  the  second  time." 

"  I  can't  prove  that.     There  were  only  she  and  I." 

"  By  Jove !  "  Dick  felt  in  his  breast  pocket.  "  She's 
given  herself  away  there.  I've  got  a  letter  from 
her.  She  says  you  refused.  She  isn't  as  clever  as  I 
thought  she  was." 

"  It's  all  bluff,"  said  Dick  contemptuously,  when  the 
letter  had  been  read.  "  I  don't  think  she  could  get 
the  Gotches  over,  for  one  thing.  And  supposing  she 
did  succeed  in  bringing  it  before  a  court,  you  could 
tell  your  story  in  the  most  public  way.  Nobody  would 
have  a  word  of  blame  for  you,  or  for  any  of  us.  I'm 
not  certain  it  wouldn't  be  the  best  possible  thing  that 
could  happen  for  us." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  it  to  come  to  ,  that,"  said  the 
Squire. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  it  will.  We've  got  other  things 
to  face — perhaps  worse  things.  I  shan't  answer  her 
letter,  though  I'll  take  good  care  to  keep  it.  When 
she  sees  that  nothing  is  coming  she'll  begin  to  spread 
reports.  That's  when  we  shall  have  to  be  on  the  look- 
out." 

"  We  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton. 
"  She  will  only  be  attacking  poor  Susan ;  and  anybody 


A  Conclave  300 

whose  opinion  of  us  wc  should  value  will  think  that  a 
wicked  thing  to  do,  now  that  Susan  is  dead." 

"But  ought  wc  not  to  defend  Susan's  memory?" 
Virginia  asked. 

All  three  of  them  were  silent.  Dick  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  We  have  to  think  straight  about  it,"  he  said. 
"  You  can't  defend  Susan,  alive  or  dead.  It  was  shield- 
ing her  that  has  put  us  in  the  wrong,  where  we  are  In 
the  wrong.  All  that  we  can  do  is  not  to  admit  any- 
thing, not  to  deny  anything ;  let  people  think  what 
they  will.  Keep  quiet.  That's  a  good  deal  to  do, 
for  if  we  liked  to  take  the  offensive  we  could  clear 
ourselves  once  and  for  all." 

"  How  could  we  do  that?  " 

"  Have  her  up  for  slander." 

"  But  what  she  will  say  about  Susan  will  be  true." 

"Do  you  think  she  will  stick  to  that?  No,  she  will 
try  to  blacken  us  in  every  way  she  can.  She'll  tell 
lies  about  us.  It's  no  good  saying  people  won't  believe 
them.  They  will  believe  them,  if  we  don't  defend  our- 
selves. We  may  have  to  have  her  up  for .  slander, 
after  all." 

"What  can  she  get  out  of  it  all?"  asked  Virginia 
in  a  voice  of  pain.  "  It  will  be  horrible.  Every  right- 
thinking  person  must  abhor  her." 

"  She  will  have  a  right  to  try  and  clear  herself,"  said 
Mrs.  Clinton.  "  It  Is  time  that  she  was  accused  of 
doing  what  Susan  really  did,  and  the  accusation  has 
never  been  cleared  up." 


310  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Dick,  "  and  if  she  confines  her- 
self to  truth,  we  have  no  right  to  try  and  stop  her. 
Under  all  the  circumstances — her  trying  to  get  money 
for  her  silence,  and  so  on — I  don't  see  that  we  are  under 
the  smallest  obligation — of  honour  or  anything  else — 
to  help  her.  If  we  come  out  into  the  open  we  shan't 
be  able  to  keep  Susan's  guilt  dark.  That's  why  I  think 
she  will  drag  us  into  attacking  her.  We  shall  see  what 
Plerbert  Birkett  says.  All  we  have  to  do  in  the  mean- 
time is  to  live  on  quietly  here  as  usual,  and  wait  for 
what  comes." 

"  There  are  the  others  to  be  thought  of,"  said  Mrs. 
Clinton.  "  Jim  and  Cicely,  Walter  and  Muriel,  Frank, 
all  of  them.     They  must  be  prepared." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick  unwillingly.  "  They  are  bound  to 
hear  of  it.  We  must  tell  them.  Get  them  down  here 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  will  go  over  and  tell  Jim  and 
Cicely  to-morrow." 

The  Squire  had  been  sitting  in  a  blessed  state  of 
quiescence.  He  had  done  his  part.  Dick  had  a  clearer 
head  than  he.  In  his  bruised  state,  he  was  only  too 
ready  to  let  Dick  take  the  lead  in  whatever  had  to 
be  done. 

"  There  is  my  poor  little  Joan  to  think  of,"  he  said. 
"  Young  Inverell — I  have  put  him  off.  Joan  must 
be  told  why." 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  Mrs.  Clinton  said.  "  Poor  child, 
it  is  hardest  for  her,  just  now.  But  he  will  not  give 
her  up — I  am  sure  of  it." 

"I   don't   know,"   said   the   Squire,     "If  the  whole 


A  Conclave  311 

country    is    going   to    ring    with    our    name His 

stands  high.  But  I  won't  have  him  here  until  the 
worst  has  happened  that  can  happen;  and  then  only 
if  he  comes  of  his  own  accord.  We  stand  on  what 
honour  is  left  to  us.  It  won't  be  much.  We've  been 
talkincr  as  if  we  could  all  clear  ourselves  at  Susan's 
expense,  if  everything  comes  out.  We  can't.  She  was 
one  of  us,  poor  girl.     We  suffer  for  her  sins." 


CHAPTER    V 

WAITING 

Brummels, 

Carchester,  Sept.  26th,  19 — . 
My  Dear  Edward, 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  second  letter,  and 
for  your  cheque  for  £7,000,  which  I  cannot  now  refuse, 
but  which,  upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with. 
If  I  buy  another  necklace  with  it,  I  publish  to  the 
world — or  to  such  part  of  it  as  will  see  the  pearls  upon 
my  wife's  neck — what  I  intend  to  keep  even  from  the 
partner  of  my  joys  and  sorrows  herself.  If  only  a 
certain  young  woman  had  been  able  to  bring  herself  to 
consent  to  the  proposal  made  to  her,  the  difficulty  might 
have  been  got  over  by  adding  to  her  stock  of  trinkets. 
But  it  is  of  no  use  to  cry  over  that,  and  my  little  friend 
Joan  will  assuredly  have  considered  herself  justified  in 
her  refusal  by  the  somewhat  startling  suddenness  with 
which  the  illustrious  Robert  consoled  himself  for  her 
loss.  These  affairs  move  too  quickly  for  me  in  my 
old  age.  The  young  woman  whom  I  now  have  the 
honour  to  call  daughter-in-law  is  all  that  could  be 
wished  from  the  point  of  view  of  health  and  high  spirits, 
and  I  have  nothing  against  her.  But  I  do  not  feel 
impelled  to  hang  an  extra  seven  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  pearls  round  her  neck.     If  that  is  a  criticism 

312 


Waiting  313 

on  her,  so  be  it.  But  she  is  not  Joan.  She  is  very  far 
from  being  Joan. 

I  have  much  news  for  you,  my  dear  Edward,  which 
only  m}'  inveterate  habit  of  procrastination  has  caused 
to  be  left  till  now. 

The  woman  fastened  upon  Mary  at  Harrogate.  This 
must  have  been  after  she  had  given  up  all  idea  of 
getting  anything  out  of  you.  No  doubt  she  followed 
her  to  that  invigorating  resort,  and  it  is  unfortunate 
that  my  poor  wife  should  not  be  able  to  drink  her 
waters  of  bitterness  without  being  frightened  out  of 
her  five  wits  by  that  resurrection.  Fortunately  I  was 
within  hail,  and  arrived  on  the  scene  in  time  to  deal 
with  the  situation.  I  gathered  from  her  account  of 
her  interview  with  you — my  poor  friend,  what  you  must 
have  gone  through ! — that  you  had  very  loyally 
exonerated  me  from  all  possibility  of  blame  or  mis- 
understanding, and  I  was  pleased  to  be  able  in  some 
sojt  to  repay  that  loyalty.  I  did  not  lie,  Edward — at 
lea-it  not  to  her.  What  fine  adjustments  of  veracity 
one  may  have  made  later,  in  connubial  intimacy,  let  no 
man  presume  to  sit  in  judgment  upon.  I  had  received 
your  first  letter.  I  said  neither  yea  nor  nay,  but  rang 
the  changes  upon  a  monotonous  charge  of  her  having 
tried  to  extort  money  from  you.  It  was  the  first  line 
of  defence,  and  I  had  no  other.  But  she  never  got 
behind  it.  There  is  a  bland  but  dogged  persistency  in 
m}'  nature  which  ought  to  have  carried  me  far.  It 
carried  me  to  the  point  of  driving  her  to  uncontrollable 
rage,  which  is  something  of  a  triumph  in  itself.     To 


314  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Mary  I  said  before  her,  "  This  lady  may  not  have 
stolen  your  necklace.  You  have  her  word  for  it.  I 
have  the  word  of  my  friend,  Edward  Clinton,  that  she 
asked  him  for  money  to  stop  her  from  spreading  the 
report  that  his  daughter-in-law  stole  it.  She  is  dead 
and  cannot  defend  herself.  Also,  Edward  Clinton 
refused  to  give  her  any  money.  These  two  facts  are 
enough  for  me.  I  recognise  this  lady's  existence  for 
the  last  time.  I  do  not  presume  to  dictate  your  actions, 
but  if  you  are  wise  I  think  you  will  do  the  same." 

We  got  rid  of  her,  and  she  left  Harrogate  the  next 
morning.  I  let  her  know,  by  the  bye,  that  you  held  a 
letter  from  her  admitting  the  fact  that  she  had  made 
demands  on  you  and  that  you  had  refused  them;  and 
you  may  tell  your  son  that  she  probably  regrets  having 
written  that  letter  as  much  as  any  she  ever  wrote.  It 
is  a  master  weapon. 

Well,  that  is  the  attitude  I  shall  take  up — my  wife 
too,  although  she  will  talk  a  great  deal,  and  be  swayed 
by  whatever  opinion  may  be  held  by  whatever  person 
she  talks  to.  There  is  houiid  to  be  talk,  and  a  great 
deal  of  talk.  You  cannot  help  that.  But  it  will  die 
down.  Deny  nothing,  admit  nothing,  except  that  you 
refused  to  pay  her  money.     That  is  my  advice  to  you. 

They  say  that  Colne  is  going  to  marry  her.  Birds 
of  a  feather!  He  is,  at  any  rate,  hot — spirituously 
so — in  his  defence  of  her,  and  in  his  offence  against  you 
and  yours.  I  met  him  passing  through  London;  for 
the  sins  of  my  youth  I  still  belong  to  the  Bit  and  Bridle 
Club,  and  I  went  there  for  the  first  time  for  I  should 


Waiting  315 

think  twenty  years,  and  fell  upon  him  Imbibing. 
Rather,  he  fell  upon  me,  and  /  fell  upon  my  parrot-cry. 
"  If  you  have  any  Irilucnce  over  that  lad}',"  I  said 
to  him,  "  I  should  {idvise  you  to  advise  her  to  keep 
quiet.  She  xeould  have  kept  quiet — for  money.  It  is 
known  that  she  asked  for  it,  and  the  less  it  has  cause 
to  be  stated,  the  better  for  what  reputation  she  has." 

I  left  my  lord  in  the  maudlin  stage,  crying  out  upon 
the  world's  iniquity,  of  which  he  has  considerable  first- 
hand knowledge ;  but  when  he  comes  to  what  senses  he 
still  possesses  he  will,  I  hope,  remember  my  advice. 
Let  him  marry  the  lady,  by  all  means.  She  will  have 
what  protection  she  deserves,  and  there  will  be  some  who 
will  accept  her.  They  will  cross  neither  my  path  nor 
yours,  for  our  orbits  and  those  of  Colne  do  not  inter- 
sect. 

Finally,  my  old  friend,  set  your  teeth  against  what 
must  come,  and  never  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  it  will 
pass.  You  have  been  remarkably  tried,  and  have 
escaped  more  pit-falls  than  could  have  been  expected 
of  any  fallible  mortal.  There  are  no  more  in  front 
of  you,  and  all  you  have  to  dq  is  to  walk  straight  on 
with  your  usual  stride. 

Ever  very  sincerely  yours, 

Sedbergh. 

This  letter  gave  the  Squire  some  comfort.  It  con- 
tained almost  the  first  definite  news  he  had  had.  He 
had  been  living  in  that  uncomfortable  state  in  which 
the  mind  is  wrought  up  to  meet  trouble  which  is  bound 


316  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

to  come,  and  the  trouble  tarries.  Every  morning  he 
had  arisen  with  the  anticipation  of  the  storm  breaking-; 
every  night  he  had  lain  down,  having  lived  through 
such  a  day  as  he  might  have  lived  at  this  season  of  the 
year  for  the  last  forty  years.  The  storm  had  not 
broken  yet. 

Was  it  too  much  to  hope  that  it  would,  after  all, 
pass  over? 

He  looked  up  from  the  letter  with  that  enquiry  in 
his  mind.  But  his  face  soon  clouded  again.  Though 
not  in  the  full  downpour,  he  was  already  caught  by  it. 

Poor  little  Joan !  She  knew.  She  was  going  about 
the  house,  trying  hard  to  be  as  bright  as  usual.  Some- 
times he  heard  her  singing.  That  was  when  she 
passed  the  door  behind  which  he  was  sitting.  She  came 
in  to  him  much  more  freely  than  she  had  ever  done, 
and  sat  and  talked  to  him.  His  daughters  had  never 
done  that,  nor  his  sons  very  frequently,  with  the 
exception  of  Dick.  It  was  an  empty  house  now.  He 
and  Joan  and  Mrs.  Clinton  were  a  good  deal  together. 
Joan  had  even  persuaded  him  to  take  her  out  cubbing. 
None  of  the  Clinton  girls  had  ever  been  allowed  to  ride 
to  hounds ;  but  there  Avere  so  many  horses  in  the  stable, 
and  so  few  people  to  ride  them  now,  that  he  had  given 
way.  But  he  had  only  been  out  cubbing  twice  himself 
this  season.  He  was  getting  too  old,  he  said.  He  had 
never  said  that  of  himself  before,  about  anything, 
which  was  why  Joan  had  pressed  him  to  take  her.  But 
three  times  it  had  happened  that  she  had  risen  at  dawn, 
and  Mrs.   Clinton  had  come  in  to  lier  and  said  that 


Waiting  317 

her  father  had  not  slept   all  night,  but  was   sleeping 
now,  and  had  better  be  allowed  to  sleep  on. 

Joan  had  heard  nothing  from  her  young  lover  since 
the  letter  had  been  written  asking  him  to  postpone  his 
visit.  She  said  nothing  to  anybody  about  him,  but 
went  about  the  house  as  usual,  singing  sometimes. 

There  had  been  one  day  amongst  the  young  birds,  in 
which  Sir  Herbert  Birkett,  Jim  Graham,  and  Walter 
only  had  assisted  from  outside  Kencote.  The  Squire 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  his  neighbours  to  shoot, 
nor  to  shoot  with  them.  The  strain  was  too  great.  On 
his  tall  horse  by  the  covert-side,  in  those  early  meets 
of  the  hounds,  he  had  always  been  on  the  look-out  for 
suspicion  and  avoidance,  and  fancied  them  when  they 
had  not  been  there.  But  the  news  might  come  at  any 
moment,  filtering  through  any  one  of  a  score  of  channels 
to  this  retired  backwater  of  meadow  and  wood  and 
stream,  and  darkening  it,  to  him  whose  whole  life  had 
been  spent  in  its  pleasant  ways,  with  shameful  rumour. 

It  had  been  settled  that  life  was  to  go  on  as  usual 
at  Kencote.  But  he  had  lost  the  spring  of  his  courage. 
Even  if  no  one  outside  knew  of  his  dishonour,  he  knew 
of  it  himself.  When  the  trouble  came  he  would  face  it 
with  what  courage  he  could.  In  the  meantime  he  kept 
more  and  more  to  the  house,  where  he  sat  in  his  room, 
...ver  the  fire,  reading  the  papers,  or  doing  nothing. 

His  half-brother,  the  Rector,  came  often  to  see  him. 
lie  was  some  years  the  younger  of  the  two,  but  for 
years  had  looked  the  older,  until  now.  The  Squire  was 
•  igeing    under    his    trial.     He    had    lost   his    confident, 


318  The  Ilonoiir  of  the  Clintons 

upright  bearing,  shambled  just  a  very  httle  when  he 
walked,  and  carried  his  head  a  trifle  forward.  His 
face  was  beginning  to  lose  its  healthy  ruddiness,  and 
his  beard  was  whiter,  or  seemed  so. 

The  two  men  had  always  been  good  friends,  but 
were  as  unlike  in  character  and  pursuits  as  possible. 
The  Rector  was  gentle  and  retiring,  a  little  bit  of  a 
scholar,  a  little  bit  of  a  naturalist,  gardener,  musician, 
artist.  He  had  no  sporting  tastes,  but  liked  the 
country  and  lived  all  the  year  round  in  his  comfortable 
Rectory.  He  was  not  a  Clinton,  but  had  been  so  long 
in  their  atmosphere  that  their  interests  were  largely 
his.  He  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  be  told  of  the 
catastrophe.  He  had  made  no  comments  on  it,  but  had 
shown  his  sympathy  by  many  kind  but  unobtrusive 
words  and  acts. 

He  came  in  as  the  Squire  was  sitting  with  Lord 
Sedbergh's  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Edward,"  he  said,  "  it  is  such  a 
lovely  morning  that  I  was  tempted  out  of  my  study. 
It  is  my  sermon  morning,  and  I  shall  have  a  good  one 
to  preach  to  you  on  Sunday.  I  was  in  the  vein.  I 
shall  go  back  to  it  with  renewed  interest." 

"  I've  had  a  letter  that  may  interest  you,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  In  a  way  it  seems  to  shed  a  gleam  of  light. 
But  I  don't  know.  Things  are  black  enough.  It's 
this  waiting  for  the  blow  to  fall  that  is  so  wretched. 
I  had  rather,  almost,  that  everyone  knew." 

The  Rector  read  through  the  letter  carefully  and 
handed  it  back. 


Waiting  319 

"  If  nothing  but  the  truth  is  to  be  told  ...  !  " 
he  said. 

"  You  mean  that  won't  be  so  bad  for  us.  It  does 
look  as  if  there  might  be  a  chance  of  her  not  telling 
more  than  the  truth,  for  her  own  sake.  If  she  is  going 
to  marry  that  creature !  Colne !  Bah !  What  mud 
we're  mixed  up  with !  To  think  it  rests  with  a  man 
like  that  to  keep  her  quiet !  " 

"  Is  he  so  bad.^  "  enquired  the  Rector. 

"  Bad !  The  sort  of  man  that  makes  his  order  a 
by-word,  for  all  the  world  to  spit  upon.  I  should 
think  even  you  must  have  some  knowledge  of  him. 
His  first  wife  divorced  him;  his  second  died  because  he 
ill-treated  her." 

"Is  that  known.?" 

"  Yes.     In  the  way  these  things  are  known." 

"He  was  Hubert  Legrange,  wasn't  he.'^  He  was  in 
my  tutor's  house  at  Eton — after  your  time.  He  wasn't 
bad  then — high-spirited,  troublesome,  perhaps — that 
was  all.     But  warm-hearted — merry.     I  liked  him." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Tom !  That's  the  sad  thing,  when 
you  get  to  our  age.  To  see  the  men  you've  known  as 
boys — how  some  of  them  turn  out !  I've  sometimes 
thought  lately  that  I  ought  to  have  been  more  grateful 
to  God  Almighty  for  keeping  me  free  from  a  good  many 
temptations  I  might  have  had.  I  married  young;  I 
settled  down  here ;  it  was  what  suited  me.  But  I  see 
now  that  those  tastes  were  given  to  me  for  my  good. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I  might  have  gone  wrong  just 
as  well  as  another.     I  had  money  from  the  moment  I 


320  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

came  of  age.  I  could  have  done  what  I  liked.  Money's 
a  great  temptation  to  a  young  fellow." 

The  Rector  hardly  knew^  whether  to  be  pleased  or 
sorry  at  this  vein  of  moralising  that  had  lately  come 
over  his  brother.  It  showed  his  mind  working  as  he 
might  have  wished  to  see  it  work,  towards  humility  and 
a  more  lively  faith;  but  it  also  showed  him  deeply 
affected  by  the  waves  that  were  passing  over  his  head; 
and  the  waves  were  black  and  heavy. 

"  What  you  say  is  very  true,"  he  said.  "  God  keep 
us  all  faithful,  as  He  kept  you,  Edward.  You  were 
tempted,  and  you  were  upheld.  You  see  that  now, 
I  think." 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  poor  Squire  after  a  pause, 
"  that  God  was  working  to  avert  this  disgrace  from 
me.  Everything  seemed  to  have  been  ordered,  in  a  way 
that  was  almost  miraculous,  to  that  end.  It  was  just 
when  I  was  shaking  off  the  last  uncomfortable  thoughts 
about  it,  when  everything  seemed  most  bright  for  the 
future,  that  the  blow  fell.  Well,  I  suppose  it  was  to 
be,  and  it  will  come  right  for  us  all  in  the  end ;  though 
I  don't  think  I  shall  know  a  happy  moment  again  as 
long  as  I  live.  I  was  living  in  a  fool's  paradise.  I 
don't  quite  understand  it,  Tom." 

The  Rector  thought  he  did.  A  fool's  paradise  is  a 
paradise  that  the  fool  makes  for  himself,  and  when  he 
is  driven  out  of  it  blames  a  higher  power.  He  was 
not  inclined  to  think  his  brother  the  worse  off,  in  all 
that  really  mattered,  for  having  been  driven  out  of  his 
paradise.     But  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  tell  him  so. 


Waiting  321 

Tlic  necessity  was  spared  him  for  the  moment.  Dick 
came  in,  and  was  shown  the  letter. 

"  I  think  that  is  the  way  things  will  work,"  he  said. 
"  She  will  be  repulsed  by  decent  people,  and  she  will 
come  to  see  that  whatever  mud  she  stirs  up,  more  than 
half  of  it  will  stick  to  her.  If  she  marries  Colne — or 
even  if  she  only  clings  on  to  him  as  her  champion — 
he'll  come  to  see,  if  he  has  any  sense,  that  the  less  she 
talks  the  better." 

"  He  would  want  to  see  her  cleared,"  said  the  Rector. 
"Yes,   and  that's  our  difficulty.     Sedbergh  is  very 
good;  but  I  don't  like  it,  all  the  same." 
"Don't  like  what?"  asked  the  Squire. 
"  I  wish  to  God  we  could  come  out  into  the  open." 
He    spoke    with    strong    impatience.     "  She's    in    the 
wrong.     Yes.     Scandalously    in   the    wrong — a    black- 
mailer, everything  you  like  to  say  of  her.     But  she's 
also  in  the  right,  and  that's  just  where  she  can  hurt 
us — where  she  is  hurting  us." 

"  Has     anything     happened.^ "     asked     the     Squire 
anxiously. 

"  Yes.  It's  reached  us  at  last.  It's  creeping  like 
a  blight  all  over  the  country — above  ground,  under- 
ground. It  will  crop  up  where  you  never  could  have 
expected.  And  what  satisfactory  answer  can  we  give, 
without  telling  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth.?  " 
"  Tell  us  what  has  happened,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  I  went  into  Baths^ate,  to  Brooks,  the  saddler.  I 
always  have  a  talk  with  the  old  man,  if  he's  in  the  shop ; 
and  he  was  there  alone.     He  hummed  and  ha'd  a  lot, 


322  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

and  said  there  was  a  story  going  about  that  he  thought 
I  ought  to  know  of.  And  what  do  you  think  the  story 
was?  Humphrey  stole  the  necklace  and  gave  it  to  Mrs. 
Amberley.  Susan  found  it  out  and  it  killed  her.  You 
gave  Humphre3^  money  on  condition  he  never  showed 
his  face  in  England  again.  That's  the  sort  of  thing 
we  are  up  against." 

The  Squire's  face  was  a  sight  to  see.  The  Rector 
relieved  the   tension  by  laughing,  but  not  very  merrily. 

"  That  story  won't  hurt  us,"  he  said. 

"That's  all  very  well,  Tom,"  said  Dick.  "It 
wouldn't  hurt  us  if  there  was  nothing  behind.  But 
what  can  you  say?  It's  a  lie.  Yes.  And  you  say  so. 
What  do  you  look  like,  when  you  say  it?  Brooks  didn't 
believe  it,  of  course.  But  he  knew  well  enough  there 
was  something,  or  he  wouldn't  have  told  me.  How  did 
it  come  ?  Who  knows  ?  He  heard  it  in  the  '  George.' 
They  were  talking  of  us.  They'll  be  talking  of  us  all 
over  Bathgate;  then  all  over  the  country.  Trace  that 
stor}^  back,  and  you'll  get  something  nearer  the  truth. 
That  will  spread  into  another  story.  There  will  be 
many  different  stories." 

"  They  will  contradict  one  another,"  said  the  Rector. 

"  Yes.  And  everyone  who  hears  or  tells  us  of  them 
will  want  to  know  exactly  where  the  truth  lies.  It 
will  all  go  on  behind  our  backs ;  but  every  now  and  then 
somebody,  out  of  real  consideration  to  us,  as  I  think 
old  Brooks  told  me,  or  out  of  impudent  curiosity,  will 
bring  it  to  our  notice.  Then  what  are  we  to  say?  Oh, 
why  can't  we  tell  the  truth  ?  " 


Wmting  323 

"  We  can't,"  said  the  Squire,  rousing  himself.  "  We 
Cixn  only  contradict  the  lies.  Well,  now  it  has  come, 
I  am  ready  for  it.  I'll  go  to  Brooks.  I'll  talk  to 
him.  I'll  go  and  sit  on  the  Bench.  I've  been  sitting 
here  doing  nothing — shirking.  I'm  glad  it  has  come 
at  last." 


CHAPTER    VI 

'  THE    POWER   OF    THE    STORM 

The  rumours  grew,  and  spread  everywhere.  The  story 
was  discussed  in  all  the  clubs,  in  all  the  drawing-rooms, 
in  every  country  house.  Allusions,  carefully  calculated 
to  escape  the  law  of  libel  by  the  narrowest  margin, 
appeared  in  many  newspapers.  All  about  peaceful 
Kencote  it  buzzed  hotly,  assuming  many  shapes,  show- 
ing itself  in  awkward  withholding  of  eyes,  that  bore 
the  look  of  the  cut  direct,  or  in  still  more  awkward 
geniality.  It  peered  out  at  the  Squire  wherever  he 
went,  and  he  now  went  everywhere  within  the  orbit  in 
which  he  had  moved,  a  respected,  honoured  figure,  all 
the  days  of  his  life. 

He  fought  gamely;  his  head  was  once  more  erect, 
his  step  firm.  But  he  fought  a  losing  battle.  Dick, 
with  his  clear  sight,  had  seen  the  weak  spot  from  the 
first.     There  was  no  answer  to  make. 

There  was,  indeed,  nothing  to  answer.  In  the  first 
flush  of  his  determination  to  take  the  field,  he  had  been 
for  going  straight  to  old  Brooks  the  saddler,  with  whom 
he  had  had  friendly  dealings  ever  since  his  schooldays, 
and  asking  him,  in  effect,  what  he  meant  by  it.  But 
cool-headed  Dick  had  restrained  him. 

"  What  can  you  do  more  than  I  did.^     I  laughed,  and 

said,  '  That's  a  pretty  story  to  have  told  about  you ' ; 

324 


The  Power  of  the  Storm  325 

and  he  said,  '  Yes,  Captain,  you  ought  to  stop  It.  I'll 
toll  everybody  exactly  what  3^ou  tell  me  to  tell  them,' 
and  waited  with  his  head  on  one  side  for  my  version. 
What's  your  version  going  to  be  when  you've  told  him 
the  story  he  heard  is  a  lie,  which  he  knows  well  enough 
already  ?  " 

So  the  Squire  went  to  Brooks,  the  saddler,  because  he 
always  did  go  in  to  have  a  chat  with  him  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  hunting  season,  but  said  nothing  to 
him  at  all  of  what  they  were  both  thinking  about.  The 
chat  was  lively  on  both  sides,  but  when  he  went  out  of 
the  shop  he  knew  that  Brooks  knew  why  he  had  come. 
To  brazen  it  out. 

No  need  to  go  through  the  places  he  went  to,  and 
the  people  he  talked  to.  He  went  everywhere  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  go,  and  he  talked  to  everybody  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  talk  to.  And  because  he  was- 
unused  to  playing  a  part,  he  overdid  this  one.  He  had 
been  a  hearty  man  with  his  equals.  Now  he  was  almost 
noisy.  He  had  been  a  cordially  condescending  man 
with  his  inferiors.  Now  he  was  effusively  patronising. 
He  would  have  done  better  to  sulk  in  his  tent  until  the 
storm  of  rumour  had  died  down.  And  he  felt  every 
curious  look,  every  unasked  question. 

It  was  ominous  that  none  of  his  friends — for  he 
had  many  lifelong  friends  amongst  his  country  neigh- 
bours, though  no  very  intimate  ones — said  to  him  that 
ugly  rumours  were  going  about,  and  that  they  thought 
he  ought  to  know  of  them  so  that  he  could  contradict 
them.     It  was  obvious  that  he  knew  of  them,  and  that 


326  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

thej  thought  he  could  not  contradict  them,  or  they 
would  have  spoken.  Nobody  could  tell  anybody  else 
that  he  had  heard  the  truth  of  these  absurd  stories 
from  Clinton  himself,  and  it  was  so  and  so.  Nobody 
cut  him,  nobody  even  avoided  him;  it  was,  indeed,  diffi- 
cult to  do  so,  he  was  so  ubiquitous ;  but  the  unasked, 
unanswered  questions  behind  all  the  surface  sociality 
poisoned  the  air.  The  Squire  was  in  torment  in  all  his 
comings  and  goings. 

Dick  fared  better,  because  he  took  things  more 
naturally.  But  nobody  asked  him  questions  either. 
He  was  not  an  easy  man  to  ask  questions  of.  If  they 
had  done  so,  he  would  have  been  ready  vrith  his  answer: 
"  I  can't  tell  you  the  truth  of  the  story,  because  it's 
a  family  matter.  But  I'll  tell  you  this  much:  Mrs. 
Amberley  tried  to  blackmail  my  father,  and  he  told  her 
to  go  to  the  devil."  It  would  not  have  answered  much, 
but  it  would  have  made  some  impression. 

But  the  trouble  was,  and  Dick  felt  it  deeply,  that  he 
could  take  no  steps  of  his  own.  He  could  go  to  nobody 
and  say,  "  I  know  there  are  ugly  rumours  going  about 
against  us.  Tell  me,  as  a  friend,  what  they  are,  and 
I'll  answer  tliem."  The  answer,  in  that  case,  would 
have  had  to  be  different,  and  must  have  contained  the 
truth  of  the  story,  if  it  were  to  be  satisfying. 

The  Squire  grew  thinner  and  older,  almost  noticeably 
so,  every  day.  Mrs.  Clinton  was  in  the  deepest  dis- 
tress about  him,  but  could  do  nothing.  He  would  come 
home,  from  hunting,  or  from  Petty  Sessions,  which  he 
now  atlended  regularl}^,  and  keep  miserable  silence,  all 


The  Poxoer  of  the  Storm  327 

his  spirit  gone.  She  and  Joan  were  companionable  with 
him,  as  far  as  he  would  let  them  be,  and  he  liked  to 
have  them  with  him;  but  he  would  not  talk,  or  if  he 
roused  himself  to  do  so,  it  was  with  such  painful  effort 
that  it  was  plain  that  it  was  only  to  please  them,  and 
brought  no  relief  to  himself.  He  would  have  no  one 
asked  to  the  house.     He  was  afraid  of  refusals. 

One  morning  a  letter  came  to  him  with  the  stamp  of 
a  Government  office,  franked  by  the  Minister  at  the 
head  of  that  office.  He  opened  it  in  surprise.  It  ran 
as  follows : 

Dear  Mr.  Clinton, 

My  nephew,  Inverell,  has  made  a  communication 
to  me  concerning  which  I  should  like  to  have  a  con- 
versation with  you.  If  you  will  do  me  the  honour  of 
calling  on  me  when  you  are  next  in  London  I  will  do 
my  best  to  meet  you  at  any  hour  you  may  arrange 
for.  But  as  my  time  is  apt  to  be  occupied  a  good 
deal  ahead,  if  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  see  me 
here  at  12  o'clock  next  Tuesday  morning,  I  shall  run 
no  risk  of  disappointment. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Cheviot. 

"  Now  I  shall  have  something  to  take  hold  of,"  said 
the  Squire,  brightening. 

He  dressed  that  morning  in  better  spirits  than  he 
had  shown  for  some  time.  Poor  little  Joan !  It  had 
hurt  him  terribly  that  her  happy  love  story  had  been 


328  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

cut  off  short,  snufFcd  out  altogether,  as  it  had  seemed, 
by  the  postponement  of  her  young  lover's  visit.  He 
had  made  no  sign,  and  it  was  now  a  month  ago  and 
more  since  tlie  letter  had  been  written  to  him.  Joan 
must  have  given  up  hope  by  this  time.  She  must  be 
sick  at  heart,  poor  child!  Yet  she  never  showed  it. 
She  was  tender  of  his  wounds,  anxious  to  brighten  his 
life.  But  what  did  his  life,  now  almost  within  sisht 
of  its  end — broken,  dishonoured — matter  beside  her 
young  life,  just  opening  into  full  flower,  only  to  be 
stricken  by  the  same  blight  of  dishonour.?  He  would 
have  given  anything — life  itself — to  lift  the  weight  off 
her,  so  tender  had  his  conscience  become  under  the 
pummelling  of  fate,  so  big  his  heart  for  those  to  whom 
he  owed  love  and  shelter.  As  bitter  as  death  itself  it 
was  to  feel  that  he  who  had  surrounded  his  dear  ones — 
dear  all  through,  though  subjugated  to  his  whims  and 
prejudices — with  ever3'^thing  that  wealth  and  ease  could 
provide  for  refuge,  should  see  them  stripped  of  his 
succour,  and  himself  powerless  to  protect  them. 

He  shaved  himself  by  the  window  looking  out  on  to 
his  broad,  well-treed  park,  where  his  horses  were  being 
exercised.  He  looked  at  them  with  some  stirrina*  of 
interest.  Somehow,  he  had  not  cared  to  look  at  them 
of  late,  whether  it  was  that  the  mirth  of  the  stable-lads, 
subdued  by  reason  of  their  being  in  sight  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  house,  but  none  the  less  patent  in  its  youth- 
ful irresponsibility,  jarred  on  his  sombre  mood;  or  that 
such  signs  of  his  own  wealth  as  a  string  of  little-used 
hunters,  kept  on  because  he  had  always  kept  them,  hurt 


The  Power  of  the  Storm  329 

him  because  of  the  futility  of  his  wealth  to  help  in  the 
present  distress. 

What,  after  all,  could  young  Inverell  have  done? 
Mrs.  Clinton's  letter  had,  on  instructions,  been  entirely 
non-committal.  He  had  been  asked  to  postpone  his 
visit.  No  reason  had  been  given ;  no  future  time  sug- 
gested. He  could  only  have  waited — in  surprise  and 
dismay — for  a  renewal  of  the  invitation.  He  could 
not,  after  that  letter,  have  written  to  Joan.  Perhaps 
he  might,  after  a  week  or  two  had  elapsed,  have  written 
to  the  Squire  himself.  But  by  that  time  the  blight 
had  begun  to  spread.  It  must  have  reached  his  ears 
prett}^  quickly.  The  higher  the  rank  the  fresher  the 
gossip ;  and  the  name  of  Clinton  would  not  have  passed 
him  by,  if  it  had  been  whispered  ever  so  lightl3\ 

Well,  what  then?  The  Squire,  sensitive  now  to  the 
very  marrow,  drooped  again.  He  had  held  aloof. 
There  was  no  gainsaying  that.  Five  weeks  had  passed, 
and  Joan  had  been  left  unhappy,  to  lose  some  little 
shred  of  hope  every  day.  It  was  natural  perhaps.  He 
was  almost  a  young  prince — not  one  of  those  of  his 
rank  who  marry  lightly  to  please  their  fancy  of  the 
moment.  He  would  be  riglit  to  wait  for  a  time  if  the 
house  from  which  he  had  chosen  his  bnde  was  under  a 
cloud,  to  see  what  that  cloud  was  and  whether  it  would 
pass.  If  it  continued  to  hang  black  and  threatening 
over  those  who  made  no  effort  to  lift  it,  he  might  come 
to  ask  himself  in  time  whether  he  could  not  snatch  his 
lady  from  under  its  dark  canopy;  but  he  would  not 
ask  it  until  time  had  been  given  for  its  removal.     Oh, 


330  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

the  bitterness  of  the  thought  that  it  was  Kencote,  of 
all  houses,  over  which  the  cloud  lay  thick  and  heavy — 
Kencote,  which  had  basked  in  the  mild  sunshine  of 
honour  and  dignity  for  as  long  as,  or  longer  than  his 
own  house  had  attracted  its  more  radiant  beams ! 

But  now  he  had  moved.  This  letter  must  mean  that 
a  chance  was  to  be  given  for  the  head  of  the  house  to 
clear  himself.  Whatever  came  of  it,  it  was  the  first 
chance  that  the  Squire  had  had,  and  he  was  eager  to 
take  it. 

He  regarded  the  letter  from  all  points  of  view,  and 
was  inclined  to  think  favourably  of  it.  It  bore  a  great 
name — that  of  a  man  of  the  highest  honour  in  the 
counsels  of  the  nation,  known  to  everyone.  It 
was  courteously  written.  "  Dear  Mr.  Clinton."  The 
Squire  could  not  remember  ever  having  met  him.  He 
was  of  a  younger  generation  than  the  great 
men  he  had  foregathered  with  in  his  youth  and 
theirs.  Dick  would  probably  have  some  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  but  even  Dick,  who  had 
been  so  much  in  the  swim,  had  not  habitually  con- 
sorted with  Cabinet  Ministers  of  the  first  rank.  The 
Squire  would  know  many  of  his  friends  and  relations, 
of  course.  His  own  name  would  be  known  to  the  great 
man — Clinton  of  Kencote — there  was  still  virtue  in  it. 
It  was  not  as  if  the  young  man  had  gone  to  his 
guardian  and  told  him  that  he  wanted  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  this  or  that  country  gentleman  whose  status 
would  have  to  be  explained  and  examined.  This  was 
a  letter  to  an  equal.     It  was  nothing  that  he  was  asked 


The  Power  of  the  Storm  331 

to  go  up  and  present  himself  before  the  writer.  The 
Squire  was  quite  ready  to  pay  due  deference  to  a  man 
whose  claim  to  deference  was  founded  on  distinction 
of  a  sort  that  he  did  not  claim  himself.  It  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  that  a  Secretary  of  State  in  the  middle 
of  an  Autumn  Session  should  wait  upon  him.  Nothing 
more  could  have  been  desired  than  that  he  should  put 
his  request  with  courtesy,  which  he  had  done. 

Dick,  when  he  showed  him  the  letter,  was  not  so  sure. 
"  Of  course  you  would  have  to  go  to  London  to  meet 
him,"  he  said.  "  But  it's  really  no  less  than  a  summons, 
for  a  time  and  place  that  he  doesn't  consult  you  about. 
However,  we  won't  worry  ourselves  about  that.  What 
are  you  going  to  say  to  him.^^  " 

The  Squire  hadn't  thought  that  out  yet.  He  should 
know  when  he  got  there,  and  heard  what  Lord  Cheviot 
wanted  of  him. 

"  I  think  it's  pretty  plain  what  he  wants,"  said  Dick. 
"  You've  got  to  show  my  lord  that  you're  a  fit  and 
proper  person  to  form  an  alliance  with.  That's  what 
we're  brought  to.  It's  the  most  humiliating  thing  that 
has  happened  yet.  If  it  weren't  for  poor  little  Joan 
I  should  say  chuck  his  letter  into  the  fire,  and  don't 
answ^er  it,  and  don't  go." 

It  was  significant  of  the  change  that  had  been 
wrought  in  the  Squire  that  it  was  Dick  who  should  be 
expressing  angry  resentment  at  the  hint  of  a  slight  to 
the  Kencote  dignity,  and  he  who  should  say,  "  I  don't 
take  it  in  that  way.  And  in  any  case  I  would  sink 
my  own  feelings  for  the  sake  of  Joan." 


332  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

"  You'll  have  to  be  careful,"  said  Dick.  "  He  will 
want  to  overawe  you  with  his  position.  That's  why 
you  are  to  go  and  see  him  at  his  office.  Why  couldn't 
he  have  asked  you  to  his  house  or  his  club,  or  called 
on  you  at  yours?  This  is  a  private  matter,  and 
privately  we're  as  good  as  he  is ;  or,  at  any  rate,  we 
want  nothing  from  him." 

"  But  we  do,"  said  the  Squire.  "  We  want  Joan's 
happiness." 

"  If  Inverell  wants  Joan,  he  will  take  her.  She's 
good  enough  for  him,  or  anybody,  not  only  in  herself 
but  in  her  family." 

"  She  would  be  if  we  were  not  under  this  cloud." 

"  She  is  in  any  case.  Don't  lose  sight  of  that  when 
you  are  talking  to  him.  He  has  a  sort  of  cold  air  of 
immense  dignity  about  him;  he  is  polite  and  superior 
at  the  same  time." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  No.  At  least  I've  been  to  his  house.  We  nod  in 
the  street.  He  knows  who  I  am.  He  came  down  to 
Kemsale  some  years  ago.  He  was  a  friend  of  old  Cousin 
Humphrey's.     Didn't  you  meet  him  then.^" 

"  Perhaps  I  did,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  don't  re- 
member. Ah,  if  poor  old  Humphrey  Meadshire  had 
been  alive,  a  lot  of  this  wouldn't  be  happening." 

Lord  Meadshire,  a  kinsman  of  the  Squire's,  had  been 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  county^,  and  the  leading  light 
in  it,  for  very  many  years.  But  he  had  died,  a  very 
old  man,  two  years  before,  and  the  grandson  who  had 
succeeded  him  was  "  no  good  to  anybody." 


The  Poxfoer  of  the  Storm  333 

"  Don't  let  hiiii  overawe  you,"  was  Dick's  final 
advice,  significant  enough,  as  addressed  to  the  Squire, 
of  what  had  been  wrought  In  him. 

There  was  no  attempt  made  to  overawe  him,  unless 
by  the  ceremony  that  hedges  round  a  great  Secretary 
of  State  in  his  inner  sanctuary,  when  the  Squire  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  time  appointed. 

Lord  Cheviot  rose  from  his  seat  and  came  forward 
to  meet  him.  "  It  Is  good  of  you,  Mr.  Clinton,"  he 
said,  shaking  hands,  "  to  come  to  me  here.  If  you 
had  been  in  London  I  should  have  called  on  you." 

He  was  a  tall,  severe-looking  man  who  seldom  smiled, 
and  did  not  smile  now.  He  was  so  much  In  the  public 
eye,  and  had  for  years  played  a  part  of  such  dignity, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  the  Squire,  bucolic  as  he 
was,  not  to  be  somewhat  Impressed,  now  that  he  was 
in  his  presence. 

But  his  greeting  had  removed  any  feeling  that  had 
been  aroused  by  Dick's  criticism  of  his  letter,  and  he 
put  the  Squire  still  more  at  his  ease  by  saying  as  he 
took  his  seat  again,  '*  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
you  some  years  ago  at  Lord  Meadshlre's.  I  think  he 
was  a  relation  of  yours." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Squire.  "  Poor  old  man,  we  miss 
him  a  great  deal  in  my  part  of  the  world." 

Lord  Cheviot  bowed  his  head.  He  had  finished  with 
the  subject  of  Lord  Meadshlre. 

"  As  you  know,  Mr.  Clinton,"  he  said,  "  I  was 
guardian  to  my  nephew  during  his  mlnorltj'.  He  was 
brought  up  as  a  member  of  my  own  family;  I  stand 


334  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

as  a  father  to  him,  more  than  is  the  case  with  most 
guardians.  That  will  excuse  me  to  you,  I  hope,  for 
interfering  in  a  matter  with  which,  otherwise,  I  should 
have  had  no  concern." 

The  Squire  did  not  quite  like  the  word  "  interfer- 
ing," and  made  no  reply. 

"  He  has  told  me  that  he  wishes  to  marry  your 
daughter,  that  she  is  everything,  in  herself,  that  could 
be  desired  as  a  wife  for  him,  which  I  have  no  sort  of 
hesitation  in  accepting — in  believing." 

"  In  herself ! "  Again  the  Squire  kept  silence, 
though  invited  b}^  a  slight  pause  to  speak. 

"  He  tells  me  that  it  was  understood  that  he  should 
go  to  you  immediately  after  he  and  this  very  charming 
young  lady  had  parted  in  Scotland,  that  he  had  Mrs. 
Clinton's  invitation,  and  that  it  was  withdrawn,  and 
has  not  since  been  renewed." 

The  Squire  had  to  speak  now.  He  made  a  gulp  at 
it.  "  There  were  reasons,"  he  said,  "  why  I  wished  the 
proposal  deferred  for  a  time.  I  needn't  say,"  he  added 
hurriedly,  "  that  they  had  nothing  to  do  with — with 
your  nephew  himself." 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  not  object  to  a  marriage 
between  him  and  your  daughter.''  " 

Was  there  a  trace  of  satire  in  this  speech.''  None 
was  apparent  in  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered,  or 
in  Lord  Cheviot's  face  as  he  uttered  it,  sitting  with 
his  finger  tips  together,  looking  straight  at  his  visitor. 

If  there  was  satire  its  sting  was  removed  by  the 
Squire  answering  simply :  "  Such  a  marriage  could  only 


The  Foicer  of  the  Storm  335 

have  been  gratifying  to  me";  and  perhaps  it  was 
rebuked  by  his  adding,  "  I  have  never  met  your  nephew, 
but  he  bears  such  a  character  that  any  father  must 
have  been  gratified  for  his  daughter's  sake." 

This  gave  the  word  to  Lord  Cheviot,  whose  attitude 
had  been  that  of  one  waiting  for  an  explanation. 

He  changed  his  position,  and  bent  forward.  "  I 
think,  under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Chnton,  we  are 
entitled  to  ask  why  you  wished  the  proposal — otherwise 
gratifying — to  be  deferred." 

There  was  a  tiny  prick  in  each  of  his  speeches.  The 
Squire  was  made  more  uncomfortable  by  them  than  was 
due  even  from  the  general  discomfort  of  the  situation. 

He  raised  troubled  eyes  to  those  of  his  questioner. 
"  I  suppose  you  are  not  ignorant,"  he  said,  "  of  what 
is  being  said  of  us  ?  " 

"  Of  '  us  '.^  "  queried  Lord  Cheviot. 

"  Of  me  and  my  family.  All  the  world  seems  to  be 
talking  of  us." 

Lord  Cheviot  dropped  his  eyes.  He  may  not  have 
liked  to  be  put  into  the  position  of  questioned,  instead 
of  questioner. 

"  I  am  not  ignorant  of  it,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  for  him,"  said  the  Squire,  "  to  come  or  to 
keep  away.  As  long  as  my  name  was  being  bandied 
about  in  the  wicked  way  it  has  been,  I  would  not  ask 
him  to  my  house.  I  have  my  pride.  Lord  Cheviot.  If 
your  nephew  marries  my  daughter,  he  marries  her  as 
an  equal.  My  family  has  been  before  the  world  as 
long  as  his,  or  your  lordship's.     It  has  not  reached  the 


336  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

distinction,  of  late,  of  either;  but  tliat  is  a  personal 
matter.  If  Lord  Inverell  takes  a  bride  from  Ken- 
cote  he  takes  her  from  a  house  where  men  as  high  in 
the  world  as  he  have  taken  brides  for  many  genera- 
tions past." 

Dick,  if  he  had  heard  this  speech,  might  have  been 
relieved  of  his  fear  that  the  Squire  would  be  overawed 
by  the  Cabinet  Minister.  He  might  also  have  felt 
that  as  an  assertion  of  dignity  it  would  have  been  more 
effective  if  postponed  to  a  point  in  the  conversation 
when  that  dignity  should  have  been  affronted. 

"  If  that  were  not  so,  Mr.  Clinton,"  said  Lord 
Cheviot,  "  I  should  not  have  done  myself  the  honour 
of  seeking  an  interview  with  you.  Let  us  come  to  the 
point — as  equals — and  as  men  of  honour.  You  have 
said  that  your  name  is  being  bandied  about  in  a  wicked 
way.  I  take  that  to  mean  that  accusations  are  being 
made  which  have  no  truth  in  them." 

"  Many  accusations  are  being  made,"  said  the  Squire, 
"  which  have  no  word  of  truth  in  them.  They  will  not 
be  believed  by  anybody  who  knows  me — who  knows 
where  I  stand.  But  mud  sticks.  Many  people  do  not 
know  me — most  people,  I  may  say,  who  have  heard 
these  stories ;  for  they  have  spread  everywhere.  I 
stand  as  a  mark.  I  shelter  myself  behind  nobody ;  I 
draw  in  nobody,  if  I  can  help  it.  That  is  why  I  asked 
your  nephew  to  put  off  his  visit  to  my  house,  and 
why  I  have  not  renewed  it  since." 

"  It  was  the  right  way  to  act,"  said  Lord  Cheviot, 
"  and  I  thank  you  for  acting  so.     But,  for  my  nephew, 


The  Power  of  the  Storm  337 

it  does  not  settle  the  question ;  it  only  postpones  it. 
He  loves  your  daughter,  and  she,  I  am  assured,  loves 
him.  I  will  not  disguise  anything  from  you,  Mr. 
Clinton.  Personally,  I  should  prefer  that  this  mar- 
riage should  not  take  place.  But  I  cannot  dictate,  I 
can  only  advise.  I  advised  my  nephew  to  wait  awhile. 
He  did  so.  And  he  is  willing  to  wait  no  longer.  Mr. 
Clinton,  when  slanders  are  circulated,  there  are  ways 
of  stopping  them." 

"  What  are  they.^  "  cried  the  Squire.  "  The  slander 
takes  many  forms.  None  of  them  are  brought  before 
me.  I  know  they  are  being  circulated;  that  is  all. 
I  know  where  they  spring  from,  but  I  can't  trace  them 
back.  There  is  cunning^  at  work.  Lord  Cheviot,  as 
well  as  wickedness.     There  is  nothing  to  take  hold  of." 

"  If  you  had  something  definite  to  take  hold  of,  you 
could  meet  it ;  you  could  disperse  these  slanders  ^  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Squire  boldly. 

"  Then  I  can  be  of  service  to  you.  I  have  a  letter 
from  Lord  Colne,  in  which  he  makes  certain  accusa- 
tions. It  was  written  in  answer  to  one  from  me.  I 
had  heard  that  he  had  been  making  free  with  my 
nephew's  name  in  connection  with  yours,  and  I  wrote 
on  his  behalf  for  definite  statements,  which  could  be 
acted  on.     Here  is  his  letter." 

The  Squire  took,  and  read  it. 

My  Lord, 

In  answer  to  your  letter,  my  accusation  against 
Mr.   Clinton  is  that  the  theft  of  a  pearl  necklace  of 


338  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

which  Mrs.  Amberley  was  accused  last  year  was  com- 
mitted by  a  member  of  his  family,  that  he  knew  of 
this,  and  allowed  money  to  be  paid  to  keep  the  secret; 
also  that  he  offered  Lord  Sedbergh  the  price  of  the 
pearls,  which  offer  was  refused. 

I  am, 
Your  Lordship's  Obedient  Servant, 

COLNE. 

It  was  overwhelming.  Here  was  the  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  That  it  was  not  the  whole 
truth  helped  the  Squire  not  at  all. 

"  That  letter,"  said  Lord  Cheviot,  when  he  had  given 
him  time  to  read  it,  and  his  eyes  were  still  bent  on  the 
page,  "  is  the  strongest  possible  ground  for  an  action 
for  libel.  It  is  evidently  meant  to  be  taken  so.  Lord 
Colne  has  constituted  himself  Mrs.  Amberley's  cham- 
pion. It  is  to  him — or  to  her  through  him — that  the 
slanders  to  which  you  have  referred  can  be  traced  back." 

"May  I  take  this  letter.?"  asked  the  Squire.  "It 
is  what  I  have  wanted — something  tangible  to  go  upon." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Clinton.  I  am  glad  to  have  done 
you  the  service — incidentally." 

Again  the  little  prick.  It  was  not  on  the  Squire's 
behalf  that  the  fire  had  been  drawn. 

The  prick  was  left  to  work  in.  Lord  Cheviot  sat 
and  waited. 

"  This  is  a  most  infamous  woman,"  the  Squire  broke 
out.  "  She  came  herself  and  tried  to  trap  me.  I 
refused  to  give  her  money.     This  is  her  revenge." 


The  Power  of  the  Storm  339 

Still  Lord  Cheviot  waited. 

The  Squire  began  to  feel  that  if  he  had  escaped  one 
trap,  he  was  even  now  in  the  teeth  of  another.  He 
wanted  time  to  think  it  over ;  he  wanted  Dick  to  advise 
him.  But  he  had  no  time,  and  he  was  alone  under  the 
gaze  of  the  cold  eyes  of  the  man  who  was  waiting  for 
him  to  speak. 

"  I  can't  decide  now  exactly  what  steps  I  can  take 
about  this,"  he  said,  speaking  hurriedly.  "  But  I  sup- 
pose you  won't  be  satisfied  to  wait  until  I  do  take  steps." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied,  Mr.  Clinton,"  said  the 
chilly  voice,  "  if  you  tell  me  that  there  is  no  truth  in 
that  letter." 

Now  he  was  caught  in  the  teeth.  He  could  not 
think  clearly;  he  had  not  time  to  think  at  all.  He 
could  only  cling  to  one  determination,  that  he  had  not 
known  until  now  was  in  his  mind.  With  Humphrey 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  Susan  in  her  grave, 
he  would  not  exonerate  himself  by  inculpating  them. 

He  rose  unsteadily  from  his  chair.  "  I  can  only 
tell  you  this,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  tried 
very  terribly,  and  in  whatever  I  have  done  or  left 
undone,  I  have  followed  the  path  of  honour.  I  can 
say  no  more  than  that  now,  and  I  can  see  that  that  is 
not  enough.     So  I  will  wish  you  good-morning." 

He  did  not  raise  his  head,  or  he  might  have  seen 
the  cold,  watchful  look  in  Lord  Cheviot's  eyes  after 
a  little  fade  into  a  look  that  was  not  unsympathetic. 

But  there  was  little  softening  in  the  voice  in  which 
he  said,  "  I  must  tell  my  nephew  that   I   have  given 


340         The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

jou  the  opportunity  of  denying,  not  a  rumour  that 
cannot  be  pinned  down,  but  a  categorical  charge,  and 
that  you  have  not  denied  it." 

The  Squire  made  no  reply.  Lord  Cheviot  came  for- 
ward, as  if  he  would  have  accompanied  him  to  the 
door;  but  he  went  out  without  a  word,  and  shut  it 
behind  him. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THINKING    IT    OUT 


The  Squire  went  home  in  the  afternoon.  When  he 
reached  the  junction  at  Ganton,  where  trains  were 
changed  for  Kencote,  he  walked  across  the  platform 
to  send  a  telegram.  The  station-master,  with  whom 
he  always  exchanged  a  hearty  word,  touched  his  hat 
to  him,  and  looked  after  him  with  concern  on  his  face. 
He  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  salutation,  although  he 
had  seen  it.     He  walked  like  an  old  and  broken  man. 

Mrs.  Clinton  met  him  at  Kencote  with  a  brougham. 
He  had  wired  for  her  to  do  so.  For  the  first  time  in 
all  the  over  forty  years  of  their  marriage  he  was  not 
driving  himself  from  the  station.  He  stepped  into  the 
carriage,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  his  horses, 
and  took  her  hand.  He  had  come  home  to  her;  not  to 
his  little  kingdom. 

He  went  straight  up  to  bed.  He  had  no  spirit  even 
for  the  unexacting  routine  of  his  own  home.  He  kissed 
Joan,  who  met  him  in  the  hall,  but  without  a  word,  and 
she  went  away,  after  a  glance  at  his  face.  He  would 
not  see  Dick  when  he  came. 

He  slept  through  the  evening,  awoke  to  take  some 
food  and  drink,  but  took  very  little,  and  slept  again. 
If  ever  a  man  was  ill,  with  whom  no  doctor  could  have 
found  anything  the  matter,  he  was  ill. 

341 


342  Tlie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Mrs.  Clinton  hoped  that  he  would  sleep  through  the 
night,  but  soon  after  she  laid  herself  dov/n  beside  him, 
in  the  silence  of  the  night,  he  awoke.  The  heavy  sleep 
that  had  drugged  him  into  insensibility  for  a  time  had 
also  refreshed  and  strengthened  him,  and  for  succeed- 
ing hours  he  cried  aloud  his  despair. 

"  What  have  I  done  .^  "  That  was  the  burden  of  his 
cry.  "  Where  have  I  been  wrong?  Why  am  I  so 
beaten  down  by  punishment.'^  " 

But  by  and  by,  spent  with  beating  against  the  bars, 
he  began  to  speak  calmly  and  reasonably,  as  if  he  were 
discussing  the  case  of  someone  else,  searching  for  the 
truth  of  things,  impartially. 

"  When  Humphre}^  came  and  asked  me  to  do  what 
I  might  very  well  have  done  for  Gotch  on  my  own 
account,  I  refused.  I  was  right  there.  When  he  told 
me  that  Virginia  had  given  him  the  money,  what  was 
I  to  do?  It  was  too  late  to  get  it  back.  I  had  no 
right  to.  I  might  have  told  Virginia,  perhaps,  why 
the  money  had  been  wanted.  No,  I  couldn't  do  that.  I 
had  promised  Humphrey.  I  do  think  he  ought  not  to 
have  asked  me  for  that  promise.  But  it  was  given. 
What  could  I  have  done,  Nina,  at  that  stage?  I  knew 
about  it,  that  devilish  letter  says.  I  allowed  money  to 
be  paid  to  keep  it  secret.  Was  I  to  publish  it  abroad, 
directly  Humphrey  told  me?  Is  there  a  man  living* 
who  would  have  done  that  under  the  circumstances? 
Would  Cheviot  have  done  it  himself?  It  might  just  as 
well  have  happened  to  him  as  to  me.  Nina,  was  I  bound, 
by  any  law  of  God  or  man,  to  do  that?  " 


Thinking  It  Out  343 

"  Edward  dear,  jou  have  done  no  wrong " 

"  No,  but  answer  my  question.  If  it  had  been  you 
instead  of  me — that  might  very  well  have  happened. 
Would  you  have  said — after  you  had  been  told  under 
a  promise  of  secrecy,  mind — Susan  must  be  shown  up? 
Even  that  wouldn't  have  been  enough ;  Humphrey 
wouldn't  have  shown  her  up.  You  would  have  had  to 
do  it  yourself.  And  how  could  you  have  done  it?  Can 
you  really  seriously  say  it  was  my  duty,  when  Hum- 
phrey told  me  that  story,  to  go  and  give  information 
to  the  police?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no,  Edward." 

"But  what's  the  alternative?  Upon  my  soul,  Nina, 
I  can't  see  any  half-way  house  between  that  and  what 
I  did.  I  kept  silence,  they  say.  That  was  Cheviot's 
charge,  and  because  I  couldn't  deny  it,  I  stood  con- 
demned before  him.  I  wish  I  could  have  put  the  ques- 
tion to  him,  as  to  what  he  would  have  expected  of  me. 
Confound  him,  and  his  supercilious  way !  Nina,  you 
haven't  answered  me.     What  would  you  have  done?  " 

"  Exactly  what  you  did,  Edward  dear.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  should  even  have  had  the  strength  to  refuse 
Humphrey's  plea,  as  you  so  honourably  did,  w^ithout 
counting  the  cost  in  any  way.  You  were  ready  to  take 
any  consequences,  to  yourself.  Oh,  you  could  not  have 
done  more." 

"  But  then,  why  am  I  put  in  the  wrong?  Those  are 
the  charges  against  me.  Those,  and  that  I  offered 
Sedbcrgh  the  price  of  the  necklace — which  he  refused. 
Yes,  he  did  refuse  it,  and  made  me  feel,  too,  that  I  ought 


344  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

not  to  have  asked  him  to  accept  it.  Why  did  I  feel 
that?  It  isn't  that  he  was  wrong.  He  was  right,  and 
I  should  have  acted  as  he  did  if  I  had  been  in  his  place. 
But  why  did  I  feel  ashamed  of  having  offered  it  to 
him?  What  was  the  alternative?  To  say  nothing 
about  it  to  him,  when  Susan  had  spent  thousands  of 
pounds  belonging  to  him,  and  I  knew  of  it?  Can  any- 
one seriously  say  that  that  was  a  more  honourable 
course  to  take  than  the  one  I  did  take?  Nina,  help 
me.  Tell  me  where  I  was  wrong.  I  miist  have  been 
wrong  there,  because  I  felt  ashamed." 

"  It  is  easy  enough  now  to  mark  down  little  errors. 
In  the  main,  Edward  dear,  you  were  right  all  through — 
nobly  right." 

"Little  errors!  What  error  was  there  there?  I 
either  offered  him  the  money,  or  kept  from  him  the 
fact  that  a  member  of  my  family  had  spent  it.  There 
was  no  alternative.  Was  there?  Do  tell  me,  Nina,  if 
you  can  see  anything  that  I  can't  see." 

"  I  think  the  better  way  would  have  been  to  tell  Lord 
Sedbergh  of  what  had  been  done,  and  leave  it  to  him 
to  take  steps  if  he  wished  to.  He  would  have  taken 
none.  You  would  have  been  justified.  You  could  not 
justify  yourself  any  more  by  paying  him  back  what 
had  been  stolen." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  he  said.  He  would  not  bear  my 
burden.  Why  should  he  have?  Yes.  I  see  that, 
Nina.  I  was  wrong  there.  I  think  I  was  very  wrong 
there." 

Qki^  how  it  rent  her  heart  to  hear  him,  who  had  been 


Thinking  It  Out  345 

so  ready  with  his  dictatorial  censure  of  all  dependent 
on  him,  so  impervious  to  every  shaft  of  censure  that 
might  have  been  attracted  to  himself,  thus  baring  his 
breast  to  blame,  accepting  it,  welcoming  it,  if  it  would 
only  help  to  clear  away  his  bewilderment. 

"  It  came  to  the  same  thing,  dear,  in  the  end,"  she 
reminded  him.     "You  had  told  Lord  Sedbergh." 

*'  Ah,  but  it  wasn't  quite  the  same.  I  can  see  that 
now.  If  I  had  gone  to  him  as  you  said,  I  could  have 
denied  the  statement  that  I  kept  silence.  I  should  have 
told  the  one  man  that  perhaps  it  was  right  that  I 
should  have  told.  I  am  beginning  to  see  a  little  light, 
Nina.  Nothing  more  could  have  been  expected  of  me 
than  that.  I  should  have  had  a  complete  answer.  Oh, 
why  did  I  make  that  mistake  .^^  It  looked  to  me,  after- 
wards, such  a  small  one.  Sedbergh  set  me  right  over 
it — snubbed  me  really,  though  in  the  kindest  possible 
way — and  I  deserved  it.  But  that  didn't  end  it.  That 
mistake  put  everything  else  wrong.  I  am  beginning 
to  see  it.      But,  oh,  how  difficult  it  all  is !  " 

"  Edward,  you  had  told  Lord  Sedbergh.  You  told 
him  before  you  made  any  suggestion  as  to  payment. 
He  had  thought  the  matter  was  ended  when  he  had  said 
you  were  right  to  tell  him,  and  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  done.  You  have  told  me  that  whenever  you 
have  gone  over  the  conversation  you  had  with  him." 

He  thought  over  this.  His  slow-moving  mind  was 
made  preternaturally  acute  by  long  dwelling  on  the 
one  interminable  subject.  "  Should  I  have  told  him 
anything.''  "  he  asked,  "  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  get  the 


346  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

debt  off  my  shoulders?  No,  I  think  not.  Humphrey 
would  not  have  consented  for  one  thing,  and  I  had 
given  him  my  word.  I  suppose  I  was  wrong  there  too. 
I  ought  never  to  have  given  him  my  word.  Yet  he 
would  not  have  told  me  if  I  had  not." 

"  That  is  Humphrey's  blame.  He  asked  you  to  keep 
dishonourable  silence.  You  trusted  him  there.  You 
would  not  have  promised  that." 

"Then  my  silence  was  dishonourable.^" 

"  You  told  Lord  Sedbergh.  I  think  you  would  have 
told  him  in  any  case.  I  think  that  you  would  have 
seen  that  you  must.  You  would  have  insisted  with 
Humphrey ;  and  you  must  have  had  your  way.  You 
have  acted  so  honourably  where  you  did  see  clearly,  that 
I  have  no  doubt  you  would  have  seen  clearly  here.  You 
had  no  time  to  think.  You  were  under  the  influence 
of  the  sudden  shock.  You  went  up  to  London  to  see 
Lord  Sedbergh  the  very  next  morning." 

"  It  was  pride,"  he  said  slowly.  "  The  wrong  pride. 
I  have  been  very  blind  to  my  faults,  Nina.  Pride  of 
place,  pride  of  wealth,  pride  of  birth !  What  are  they 
in  a  crisis  like  this.^^  I  was  humiliated  to  the  dust 
before  that  man  this  morning.  Oh,  I  have  seen  myself 
in  a  wrong  light  all  my  life.  God  has  sent  me  this  trial 
to  show  me  how  little  worth  I  was  in  His  sight.  My 
pride  led  me  wrong.  Why  was  I  thinking  then  about 
the  money  at  all.^  Sedbergh  was  right.  That  woman 
was  right,  there.  It  was  a  base  thought,  and  I  have 
been  very  heavily  punished  for  it." 

She  lay  by  his  side,  comforting  him.     She  thought 


Thinking  It  Out  347 

that  he  would  now  cease  his  self-examination,  since  it 
had  led  him  to  a  conclusion  damaging  to  himself,  but 
healing  too,  if  he  saw  a  fault  and  repented  of  it.  But 
presently  he  returned  to  it  again, 

"  Why  did  I  feel  beaten  and  ashamed  before  Cheviot  ? 
Why  has  he  the  right  to  say  those  damning  words  to 
his  nephew,  '  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  brought  you  a 
definite  charge  made  against  your  honour,  and  you  did 
not  deny  it'?" 

"  Edward  dear,  you  might  have  denied  it,  but  for  one 
thing.     The  charge  against  you  was  not  true." 

"  But  it  was  true.  I  knew  of  Susan's  guilt,  and 
money  was  paid  to  keep  it  secret — money  that  I  knew 
had  been  paid." 

"  That  you  allowed  to  be  paid,"  she  corrected  him. 
"  You  did  not  allow  it.  It  was  not  paid  to  keep  the 
secret.  Virginia  paid  it,  on  behalf  of  Dick,  and  paid 
it  with  quite  a  different  intention." 

"  Isn't  that  a  mere  quibble  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not.  A  quibble  is  a  half-truth  that 
obscures  a  whole  one.  This  is  not  like  that.  It  is 
because  the  whole  truth  is  so  difficult  to  disengage  here 
that  it  looked  like  the  half-truth.  I  say  nothing  of 
Humphrey ;  but  as  regards  you  it  is  the  v/hole  truth. 
It  is  not  true — it  is  a  lie — to  say  that  you  allowed 
money  to  be  paid  to  conceal  what  you  knew.  You 
refused  to  pay  money  yourself,  because  you  knew  it 
would  have  the  indirect  effect  of  concealing  the  truth. 
It  was  not  in  your  power  to  stop  the  money  being  paid 
with  an  innocent  object.     And  '»v'hen  it  is  said  that  you 


348  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

knew  of  Susan's  guilt,  if  that  is  in  itself  a  charge  of 
keeping  silence,  the  answer  is  that  you  did  not  keep 
silence.  You  told  Lord  Sedbergh.  That  you  offered 
him  the  money  afterwards  is  nothing — would,  I  mean, 
be  considered  nothing  against  you,  as  coming  after- 
wards. As  it  is  put  in  that  letter  it  is  as  untrue  as 
the  rest;  for  it  is  intended  there  to  look  as  if  you  had 
offered  that  money  too  in  order  to  buy  silence." 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  have  a  very  clever  head. 
I  wonder  if  you  are  right.  That  would  exonerate  me 
of  everything." 

"  You  are  to  be  exonerated  of  everything,"  she  said 
quietly,  "  except  the  mistake  of  thinking  it  more  im- 
portant that  Lord  Sedbergh  should  be  told  because  of 
the  debt  that  lay  heavy  on  you  than  because  it  was 
right  that  he  should  be  told  in  any  case.  You  did  tell 
him,  which  is  all  that  anyone  inclined  to  criticise  you  is 
concerned  with,  and  /  know  well  enough  that  you  would 
have  told  him  if  there  were  no  question  of  payment.  My 
dear  husband,  you  have  been  so  cast  down  by  the  blows 
you  have  received  that  you  are  inclined  to  blame  your- 
self, knowing  everything,  as  others  are  inclined  to  blame 
you,  knowing  nothing." 

This  was  sweet  balm  to  him,  and  he  lay  comforting 
himself  with  it  for  some  time.  But  his  doubts  came 
back  to  him. 

"  Then  why  did  I  feel  so  ashamed  before  Cheviot?  " 

She  was  ready  with  her  answer  at  once.  "  For  a 
reason  that  does  you  more  honour  than  anything  else. 
You   took   the   sins   of   others   upon   you.     You    took 


Thinking  It  Out  349 

shame  before  him,  not  for  your  own  faults,  but  for 
theirs.  If  you  could  have  told  him  everything,  he  would 
have  seen  what  even  you  couldn't  see  at  the  time — 
that  the  apparent  truth  in  that  letter  was  not  the 
truth.  The  only  true  thing  in  it  was  that  Susan  was 
guilty." 

"  And  that  I  knew  it." 

"  There  was  no  shame  in  that,  to  you,  unless  you 
kept  silence,  which  you  did  not  do." 

"  I  can't  see  that  quite  straight  yet,  Nina,  though  I 
should  like  to.  Why  are  you  so  sure  that  I  should 
have  told  Sedbergh  in  any  case,  or  insisted  upon  Hum- 
phrey telling  him?" 

"  Because  I  see  so  plainly  how  your  mind  has  worked 
all  along.  It  never  did  work  on  that  point,  because 
3'ou  took  the  right  course  at  once — we  will  say,  if  you 
like,  for  not  quite  the  right  reason — and  it  was  never 
a  matter  to  be  fought  out  with  yourself.  It  had  been 
done." 

"  You  are  very  comforting  to  me,  my  dearest.  I  do 
believe  you  are  right.  I  say  it  in  all  humility ;  I  think 
I  should  not  have  been  allowed  to  go  wrong  there." 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  not ;  quite  sure.  Even  with 
your  pride  to  guide  you,  as  you  say  it  did,  you  could 
not  have  consented  long  to  hold  back  the  truth  from 
Lord  Sedbergh.  Him,  at  least,  you  must  have  told — 
as  you  did." 

"Well,  I  give  in,  Nina.  You  give  me  great  com- 
fort." 

"  And  I  give  you  great  honour  too,  Edward.     You 


350  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

have  taken  the  burden  and  the  shame  on  yourself  when 
a  word  would  have  removed  it." 

"  Not  only  on  myself,  Nina.  You  share  it.  We  all 
share  it ;  our  poor  little  Joan  more  heavily  than  any 
of  us." 

"  I  cannot  but  think  that  Joan  will  win  her  happiness 
in  time.  He  would  not  be  what  he  is  if  he  allowed  this 
to  keep  him  from  her.  The  talk  will  die  down.  No 
one  will  blame  her — can  blame  her — even  now,  when  it 
is  at  its  loudest.  We  must  wait  in  patience  for  what 
will  come.  Dear  Joan  will  be  all  the  happier  when  her 
trial  is  over,  and  the  stronger.  She  is  bearing  it 
bravely.     I  am  proud  of  my  girl." 

The  Squire  lay  for  a  long  time  silent.  Then  he 
said,  "  Well,  we  have  thought  it  out  together,  my  dear. 
I  can  face  what  must  come  now.  We  face  it  together. 
We  live  on  quietly  here,  as  we  have  always  lived.  I 
ask  no  one,  from  now,  to  stand  and  deliver.  I  do  my 
duty  amongst  my  neighbours,  and  those  dependent  on 
me,  and  they  think  of  me  what  they  please.  You  who 
know  me,  love  and  trust  me,  and  that  shall  be  enough. 
We  have  our  quiet  home,  and  our  children,  and  their 
children,  and  the  friends  who  have  stood  by  us.  And 
we  have  our  religion — our  God,  Who  has  helped  us, 
and  will  help  us.  We  have  our  burden  too,  but  He 
vvill  make  it  light  for  us.  I  feel  at  peace  about  it  now, 
Nina — almost  happy.  I  think  I  shall  sleep  to-night. 
Good  night,  Nina.  God  bless  you.  May  God  bless 
you,  my  dear  wife !  " 


CHAPTER   VIII 


SKIES    CLEARING 


The  Squire  had  slept  late.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  stood 
by  his  bed  when  the  breakfast  gong  had  sounded,  and 
looked  down  upon  his  face,  older  without  a  doubt  than 
it  had  been  a  month  before,  more  lined  and  furrowed, 
less  firm  of  flesh,  less  ruddy  of  skin,  but  peaceful  now, 
in  its  deep  slumber.  She  had  touched  with  her  hand, 
lightly  and  tenderly,  his  grey  head,  and  then  gone 
downstairs  to  take  the  place  which  he  had  so  seldom 
missed  taking  during  all  the  years  of  their  married 
life. 

He  got  up  at  once  when  he  awoke,  shocked  at  finding 
himself  so  late.  The  horses  had  gone  back  to  the 
stables  when  he  went  into  his  dressing-room,  but  he 
stood  for  a  moment  or  two  looking  out  over  the  park, 
and  then  opened  the  window.  Unconsciously  he  was 
taking  stock  of  his  surroundings  once  more,  breathing 
in  with  the  mild  autumn  air  that  sense  both  of  space 
and  retirement  which  was  the  note  of  his  much-loved 
home.  It  was  his  once  more,  to  enjoy  and  to  take  pride 
in.     Lately  it  had  seemed  not  to  be  his  at  all. 

Mrs.  Clinton  sat  with  him  over  his  late  breakfast. 
He  had  hardl}^  begun  it  when  Dick  came  in. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire  cheerfully.  "  Sorry 
I  couldn't  see  you  last  night.     I  was  done  up.     I'm  all 

851 


352  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

right  now,  ready  for  anything.  Your  dear  mother 
and  I  have  talked  it  all  over.  There's  nothing  to  be 
done  but  bide  our  time.      It  will  pass  over." 

There  was  a  distinct  change  in  his  attitude  towards 
his  eldest  son.  He  was  accustomed  to  greet  his  other 
sons  with  that  fatherly,  "  Well,  my  boy ! "  but  not 
Dick.  Dick  had  the  master-head.  He  never  presumed 
on  it  to  set  up  authority  where  it  w^ould  be  hurtful  to 
his  father's  self-complacency,  but  he  was  accustomed 
to  rule,  none  the  less,  and  the  Squire  to  rely  on  him 
to  decide  in  every  difficulty.  But  now  he  had  decided 
for  himself.  Dick  was  his  much-admired  and  trusted 
son,  but  not,  in  this  matter,  his  director,  nor  even  his 
adviser. 

"  He  got  the  better  of  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Dick, 
seating  himself  at  the  table. 

"  I  suppose  he  did.  I  don't  know.  Is  that  how  you 
would  put  it,  Nina.?  " 

"  Your  father  saw,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton,  "  when  it 
came  to  the  point,  that  it  meant,  if  he  was  to  clear 
himself,  he  must  heap  all  the  blame  upon  Susan,  and 
in  a  lesser  degree  on  Humphrey.  If  he  had  done  that 
he  must  have  satisfied  Lord  Cheviot.  But  he  would 
not  do  it." 

"  Rather  rough  on  Joan,"  said  Dick  with  a  slight 

frown. 

"  I  have  told  Joan  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton, 
"  and  she  sees  it  as  we  do.     She  is  content  to  wait." 

"Read  that,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  the  fateful 
letter  from  his  pocket.     "  That  is  what  we  have  to  face. 


sides  Clearing  353 

I  didn't  see  my  way  to  deny  it,  so  I  left  his  Lordship 
to  attend  to  the  affairs  of  the  nation." 

"  But  it  isn't  true !  "  said  Dick,  when  he  had  read 
it.  "  It  looks  like  the  truth,  but  it  isn't.  You  could 
have  denied  every  word  of  it,  except  the  first  state- 
ment— about  Susan." 

The  Squire  looked  at  his  wife  with  a  smile. 
"  Dick  sees  it  at  once,"  he  said.  "  It  took  you  and  me 
half  the  night  to  get  at  it,  Nina;  and  I  should  never 
have  got  at  it  by  myself.  Well,  it  isn't  true,  Dick, 
as  far  as  it  puts  blame  on  me  which  I  don't  deserve. 
But  it's  true  about  Susan.  I  couldn't  tell  him  the 
story ;  so  I  came  away." 

"  And  he  will  tell  Inverell  that  he  showed  you 
this  ktter  and  you  could  make  no  reply  to  it." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Dick  looked  deeply  disturbed.  "  I  wish  I  had  been 
there,"  he  said. 

"  If  you  had  been  there,  Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton, 
"I  think  you  would  have  done  just  the  same  as  your 
father  did.  Have  you  ever  faced  the  necessity  of  bring- 
ing the  charge  against  Susan  with  your  own  lips?  I 
don't  think  you  could  do  it,  if  it  came  to  the  point." 

Dick  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  "  We  could  not 
deny  it  if  they  brought  us  to  the  point,"  he  said. 

"  No ;  but  that  is  different." 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  swinging  the  tassel  of  the 
blind.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  to  have  come  to 
the  point  where  Humphrey  ought  to  speak — ought  to 
be  sent  for.     We  can't  do  it.     No;  perhaps  you  are 


''354  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

right ;  until  wc  arc  pushed  to  a  point  where  we  shall 
have  to  do  it.  But  he  could ;  and  it  ought  to  be  done. 
Why  should  father  be  made  to  suffer  these  indignities? 
Why  should  poor  little  Joan  lose  her  happiness  in  this 
way?  I'm  not  sure  that  it  isn't  our  duty  to  speak  out, 
even  now,  however  much  we  should  dislike  having 
to." 

"  I  can't  see  it  in  that  way,  Dick,"  said  the  Squire. 
"As  I  said  to  you  once  before,  Susan  was  one  of  us. 
We  should  have  had  to  share  her  disgrace,  as  a  family, 
if  she  had  been  alive ;  and  a  very  terrible  disgrace  it 
would  have  been,  though  we  might  have  been  shown 
to  be  free  of  blame  ourselves.  We  can't  cut  ourselves 
off  from  her  now  she  is  dead.  To  put  it  on  the  lowest 
ground,  it  wouldn't  do  us  any  good.  Nobody  would 
respect  us  more  for  it.  They  would  say  that  we  could 
keep  silence  about  it  to  save  oiir  own  skins,  but  put 
it  all  on  to  her  directly  it  became  known.  I  wouldn't 
mind  what  they  said,  if  I  didn't  feel  the  same  myself. 
I  am  not  going  to  mind  for  the  future  what  anybody 
says.  Let  them  say  what  they  like.  We  know  that 
we  have  done  nothing  wrong — or  very  little — and  that 
must  be  enough  for  us." 

Dick  returned  to  the  letter  in  his  hand.  "  They 
want  us  to  go  for  them,"  he  said.  "  Cheviot  must  have 
seen  that." 

"  He  did,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  told  him  I  should 
consider  what  was  to  be  done." 

"Have  you  considered  it?"  Dick  looked  at  him  as 
if  ready  to  hear  a  decision,  not  to  advise  on  one. 


Skies  Clearing  355 

"  Your  mother  and  I  think  we  had  better  take  no 
steps,  for  the  reason  I  have  already  given." 

"  It's  plain  enough  what  it  means,"  said  Dick. 
"  They  want  the  story  out.  They  think  they  will  gain, 
even  though  it  also  comes  out  that  she  asked  you  for 
money.  We  put  too  much  faith  in  that  weapon.  She 
would  give  the  same  reasons  that  she  gave  to  you. 
They  would  sound  plausible  enough.  They  have  chosen 
their  ground  well.  I  thought  they  would  have  spread 
lies,  which  we  couldn't  have  proved  to  be  lies,  without 
taking  action.  I've  no  doubt  that  Colne  thinks  this  is 
the  truth,  and  finds  it  serves  their  purpose  best.  It 
has  certainly  served  it  here." 

"  For  the  time,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton. 

"  Well,  say  you  take  no  notice  of  this.  Are  they 
going  to  stop  at  this.^  On  these  lines  they  can  force 
us  to  take  action,  sooner  or  later,  if  that  is  what  they 
want.     We  ought  to  be  prepared  for  it." 

"  We  must  take  each  occasion  as  it  comes,"  said  the 
Squire. 

"  I  think  that  Humphrey  ought  to  be  written  to.  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  possible  to  avoid  taking  action,  if 
they  press  us.  We  can  stand  this.  We  don't  know 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  stand  the  next  move,  or  the 
one  after.  It  is  he  who  has  got  us  into  this — he,  even 
more  than  poor  Susan,  as  it  turns  out.  He  ought  to 
come  home  and  face  it  with  us.  You  ought  to 
write  to  him  by  this  mail,  father ;  or  I  will,  if  you 
like." 

"Wait  a  little,   Dick,"   said   the   Squire.     "I  must 


356         The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

tliink  it  out.     Your  mother  and  I  must  think  it  out 
together." 

He  was  glad  enough,  a  few  days  later,  that  Hum- 
phrey had  not  been  written  to  by  that  mail.  For 
there  was  a  letter  from  him,  from  Australia.  It  was 
written  from  the  Union  Club  in  Sydney,  and  ran  as 
follows : 

My  Dear  Father, 

I  did  not  write  to  you  by  the  last  mail,  because 
there  was  something  I  wanted  to  say,  and  was  not 
quite  ready.  On  the  voyage  out  here  I  thought  con- 
stantly of  what  had  happened  at  home  before  Susan's 
death,  and  asked  myself  if  there  was  anything  I  could 
do  in  the  way  of  reparation.  The  money  part  of  it 
we  settled  together  before  I  left  England;  but  I  think 
there  is  something  else  that  I  ought  to  do.  Supposing 
the  story  were  to  come  out  in  some  way,  and  I  were 
out  of  England,  it  might  be  very  awkward  for  you. 
Mrs.  Amberley  would  be  sure  to  hear  of  it,  and  she 
would  be  sure  to  come  down  on  you.  You  might  not 
feel  inclined  to  tell  the  whole  story,  to  clear  yourself 
of  any  complicity  in  what  I  did,  and  it  might  be  weeks 
or  months  before  you  could  get  at  me. 

So  I  have  put  down  exactly  what  happened,  in  the 
form  of  an  affidavit,  which  I  am  sending  you  under 
another  cover.  You  can  keep  it  by  you,  to  use  if  the 
occasion  should  ever  arise.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that 
if  Mrs.  Amberley  ever  comes  back  to  England  and 
makes  any  attempt  to  reinstate  herself,  it  ought  not 


SJdcs  Clearing  357 

to  be  sent  to  her ;  but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  ask  you 
to  do  that.  I  only  say  that  if  you  think  it  ought  to  be 
done,  I  shall  accept  your  decision.  I  should  do  again 
what  I  did  to  save  Susan,  and  of  course  it  would  be 
great  pain  to  me  to  have  her  name  brought  forward 
now ;  but  she  was  so  sincerely  sorry  for  what  she  had 
done  before  she  died,  that  I  believe  she  would  have  been 
glad  for  me  to  take  any  steps  to  put  the  wrong  right 
as  far  as  possible.  But,  as  I  say,  it  is  too  hard  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  take  what  I  suppose  would  be 
the  only  step  that  could  really  put  everything  right  as 
far  as  we  are  concerned.  You  might  tell  mother 
and  Dick  about  it  now,  and  I  will  leave  it  in  your 
hands. 

I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  stay  out  here  for  a 
year  or  two,  and  possibly  for  good.  I  like  the  country, 
and  I  like  the  people.  I  have  made  a  good  many 
friends  already,  especially  here  in  Sydney.  I  am  stay- 
ing in  this  club,  and  it  is  like  being  amongst  one's 
friends  at  home,  except  that  everybody  seems  to  have 
something  to  do.  I  have  been  up  country,  and  I  like 
that  better  still.  In  a  month  or  so  I  am  going  on  to  a 
sheep  station  to  learn  the  job,  and  if  I  find  it  suits  me 
I  shall  ask  you  to  help  me  buy  one  of  my  own.  One 
gets  a  great  deal  of  open-air  life,  and  the  work  is 
interesting,  and  not  too  arduous.  I  mean  that  one 
could  get  down  here,  and  to  the  other  cities,  and  go 
home  on  a  visit  every  few  years.  I  shouldn't  know 
what  to  do  in  England  now,  and  I'm  tired  of  doing 
nothing.     Here  I  should  have  plenty  to  do,  and  could 


358  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

forget   a   good   deal   of   the   past,   which   has   been   so 
painful  to  all  of  us. 

Give  my  love  to  mother,  and  all  of  them.  I  wilj 
write  to  her  by  the  next  mail. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

Humphrey. 

The  paper  to  which  Humphrey  had  referred  was  in  a 
long  envelope  among  the  Squire's  other  letters.  He 
opened  it,  and  read  a  plain,  straightforward  account  of 
everything  that  had  happened  within  Humphrey's 
knowledge. 

"  I  went  to  my  father  on  May  29th,"  part  of  it  ran, 
"  and  asked  him  to  pay  this  sum  to  Gotch.  When  he 
refused,  I  told  him  under  a  promise  of  secrecy  of  my 
wife's  action,  and  told  him  that  a  concession  to  Gotch 
would  have  the  indirect  effect  of  keeping  this  from 
being  known,  and  save  himself  and  my  family,  as  well 
as  my  wife,  from  the  disgrace  of  an  exposure.  He 
told  me  that  if  that  was  the  only  way  in  which  silence 
could  be  kept,  matters  must  take  their  course,  and 
refused  to  do  anything.  I  then  went  to  my  sister-in- 
law,  Mrs.  Richard  Clinton,  and  persuaded  her  to  let 
Gotch  have  the  money,  which  she  did,  knowing  nothing 
of  why  I  wanted  it  paid  to  him.     .     .     . 

"  My  father  advised  me  to  tell  Lord  Sedbergh  of 
what  had  happened,  or  to  allow  him  to  tell  him,  and  if 
possible  to  get  him  to  accept  the  price  of  the  necklace 
that  had  been  stolen. 


Skies  Clearing  359 

•'  Just  before  her  death,  mj  wife  asked  me  to  do  what 
I  could  to  put  right  tlie  wrong  that  she  had  done,  and 
I  sicrn  this  account  of  what  she  told  me,  and  of  what 
happened  afterwards  within  my  knowledge,  in  the  firm 
belief  that  she  would  have  wished  me  to  do  it.      .     .     ." 

So  there  was  the  exoneration  of  the  Squire,  of  every- 
thing that  he  had  done,  in  his  hands,  to  use  as  he 
pleased. 

His  thoughts  were  tender  towards  the  son  who  had 
given  him  so  much  trouble,  but  now  seemed  to  be  in 
such  a  fair  way  of  making  up  for  the  mistakes  of  his 
past  life.  As  he  sat  and  thought  about  him,  it  was 
not,  at  first,  the  relief  that  he  had  so  honourably  sent, 
little  knowing  how  pat  to  the  occasion  it  would  come, 
that  filled  his  thoughts,  but  the  decision  that  Hum- 
phrey had  come  to  with  regard  to  his  own  future. 

It  seemed  to  the  Squire  an  eminently  right  one. 
Humphrey  was  going  on  to  the  land,  on  which  every 
man,  according  to  his  view,  had  the  best  chance  of 
making  the  most  of  his  life,  and  escaping  the  perils  that 
beset  the  town-dweller.  That  it  was  in  that  great  new 
country,  where  the  land  meant  so  much  more  even  than 
it  did  in  England,  where  there  were  still  fields  to  con- 
quer, still  room  in  the  great  pastoral  or  agricultural 
armies,  that  Humphrey  was  going  to  make  himself  a 
place,  was  an  added  fitness.  He  would  be  entering  on 
a  new  life  in  a  new  land.  He  was  young  yet.  He 
would  forget  the  past,  but  he  would  not  forget  the 


360  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

lessons  he  had  learnt  from  it.  He  might  even  marry 
again;  the  Squire's  vision  broadened  to  embrace  a  new 
branch  of  the  Clinton  tree,  to  flourish  in  years  to  come 
on  the  fertile  soil  of  that  Britain  overseas.  Life  on  the 
land — it  was  the  same  in  essence  wherever  it  was  lived, 
healthy,  useful,  and  honourable.  Thank  God  that 
Humphrey  had  embraced  it !  Thank  God  for  one  Clin- 
ton more  to  live  it,  in  honour  and  well-being ! 

When  he  came  to  consider  the  document  that  Hum- 
phrey had  put  into  his  hands,  he  could  not  quite  make 
up  his  mind  what  to  do  with  it.  He  thought  he  would 
go  down  to  the  Dower  House  and  consult  Dick;  but 
went  to  find  his  wife  instead. 

"  I  am  glad  that  Humphrey  has  done  this,"  she  said, 
"  very  glad  indeed.  I  think  it  is  plain  what  use  he 
thinks  should  be  made  of  it,  although  he  cannot  bring 
himself  to  say  so." 

"  You  think  that  it  ought  to  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Am- 
berley.?" 

"  I  think  that  if  that  is  done,  and  you  write  and 
tell  him  so,  he  will  recognise  that  it  was  that  feeling 
that  directed  him  to  write  it.  It  will  be  full  restitu- 
tion. No  need  for  us  to  balance  her  guilt  and  her 
punishment.  She  was  wronged  there,  whether  she  was 
actually  punished  for  it  or  not.  Poor  Susan's  last 
cry  to  me  was,  '  If  I  could  only  do  something  to  put 
it  right  before  I  die ! '  This  will  put  it  right,  as  far 
as  any  sin  can  be  put  right.  It  has  been  the  one 
thing  lacking.  And  it  comes  from  Humphrey — from 
her,  through  Humphrey." 


Skies  Clearing  361 

"  I  will  send  a  copy  to  her  lawyers,"  said  the  Squire, 
"  through  mine.  She  will  make  what  use  she  likes  of  it. 
We  have  to  face  her  making  a  use  of  it  that  will  hurt 
us.  She  may  publish  it  in  the  papers.  There  would 
be  nothing  to  prevent  her." 

Mrs.  Clinton  looked  serious. 

"  Well,  we'll  risk  that,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  think 
it  would  be  a  wicked  thing  to  do;  but  she's  a  wicked 
woman.  I  haven't  changed  my  mind  about  that,  at 
any  rate.  We  can  only  take  the  right  course,  and  put 
up  with  the  consequences." 

"  I  think  you  would  be  justified,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton, 
"  in  saying,  when  you  write  to  your  lawyers,  that  she 
may  use  this  document  to  clear  herself,  in  any  way  she 
pleases,  and  that  you  will  take  no  steps  if  she  uses 
it  privately;  but  that  if  she  publishes  it,  you  will 
publish  the  fact  that  she  asked  you  for  money,  and  her 
letter  to  Dick.  I  think  she  will  not  publish  it.  She 
can  clear  herself  of  so  little.  It  is  only  as  a  weapon 
that  she  has  been  able  to  make  use  of  her  discovery. 
In  spite  of  that  letter  of  Lord  Colne's,  she  must  have 
used  it  to  create  the  impression  that  she  was  innocent 
of  everything.  By  publishing  this,  she  will  fasten  on 
herself  the  guilt  of  what  she  was  actually  punished  for, 
and  remind  the  world  of  it.  She  w^ould  gain  nothing; 
and  if  the  fact  of  her  having  come  to  you  for  money 
is  published  as  well,  she  will  lose." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  think  you  have  the 
clearest  head  of  all  of  us.  No,  they  won't  let  her  use 
it   in   any   way   that   can   hurt   us,   for   she   will  hurt 


362  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

herself  as  well.  This  is  the  end  of  it,  thank  God;  and 
the  talk  will  die  down." 

That  afternoon  the  Squire  sat  in  his  room.  Mrs. 
Clinton  and  Joan  were  driving.  He  had  been  out  with 
a  gun,  with  Dick,  had  come  in  and  changed  his  boots, 
and  was  just  beginning  to  nod,  as  he  sat  before  the 
fire,  with  the  "  Times  "  on  his  knee. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Lord  Inverell  was 
announced. 

The  young  man,  tall,  fair,  and  open-faced,  came  for- 
ward with  a  smile.  "  Mr.  Clinton,"  he  said,  as  the  door 
was  shut  behind  him,  "  I  hope  you  will  give  me  a  wel- 
come. I  have  seen  my  uncle,  and  heard  what  he  had 
to  say.  Now  I  have  come  to  say  what  I  want  to  say 
myself,  and  I  hope  you  will  listen  to  it." 

The  Squire  was  somewhat  overcome.  The  memory 
of  his  interview  with  Lord  Cheviot  still  rankled. 

The  young  man  took  the  seat  to  which  he  was 
motioned.  He  still  smiled.  He  had  a  very  frank  and 
pleasing  expression  of  face,  and  was  handsome  besides, 
with  his  crisp  hair,  that  curled  as  much  as  it  was 
permitted  to,  his  grey  eyes,  and  white,  even  teeth. 
"  Mr.  Clinton,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  to  ask  you  for 
Joan.     Will  you  give  her  to  me.^^  " 

The  Squire  experienced  a  strong  and  agreeable  feel- 
ing of  everything  having  come  right  all  at  once.  It 
was  so  strong  that  it  was  almost  too  much  for  him. 
He  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying  as  he  stammered: 
"  You  want  my  little  Joan  .^  She's  the  last  one  I  have 
left." 


Skies  Clearing  363 

"  I  know.  I  should  have  taken  her  from  you  before. 
But  I  waited,  after  Mrs.  Clinton's  letter.  I  wish  I 
hadn't.  But  I  didn't  know  for  some  time  why  it  had 
been  written.  When  I  did  know,  I  waited  a  little  longer ; 
and  then  my  uncle  heard — what  I  wanted,  you  know — 
and  talked  to  me.  He  has  a  way  with  him — my  uncle, 
Mr.  Clinton.  When  he  says  a  thing,  you  are  inclined 
to  give  in  to  him — at  first." 

His  smile  was  inviting  here.  "  He  told  you  to  wait 
a  little  longer,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Yes,  that  was  it.  He  kept  me  hanging  on.  There 
couldn't  be  any  hurry,  he  said.  Then  he  seems  to 
have  written  letters.  He  is  rather  fond  of  writing 
letters ;  they'll  go  into  his  biography  by  and  by,  you 
know.  But  not  the  one  he  wrote  to  Colne.  /  didn't 
ask  him  to  write  that.     I  wish  he  hadn't." 

"  The  answer  he  got  was  a  very  awkward  one  for 
me,"  said  the  Squire.  "I  couldn't  deal  with  it  at  the 
time  to  Lord  Cheviot's  satisfaction.  Fortunately,  I 
can  now." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,  Mr.  Clinton.  But  it's  not  neces- 
sary, as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  know.  Still,  I 
shouldn't  object  to  your  squaring  my  uncle,  if  j-ou  can, 
without  putting  yourself  out.  I  don't  want  to  quarrel 
with  him,  if  it  can  be  helped." 

"  Why  have  you  come  here,  after  what  he  told  you?  " 

"  Because  I  made  him  tell  mc  everything.  Rather  a 
triumph  for  me,  that !  He  told  me  that  you  had  said 
you  had  been  through  a  horrible  time,  and  hadn't  done 
anything  that  you  were  sorry  for.     I  said,  '  Thanks, 


364  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

uncle,  that's  good  enough  for  me.  There  are  a  lot  of 
stories  going  about,  and  you  can  believe  which  of  them 
you  like.  I  choose  to  believe  the  one  that  Joan's 
father  tells,  and  I'm  off  there  this  afternoon.  Wish  me 
luck ! ' " 

"  He  let  you  come,  without  any  further  discussion.'^  " 

"  Oh  no ;  not  a  bit.  That  was  three  or  four  days  ago. 
He  argued  with  me.  I  said,  'Well,  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do .? '  He  said,  '  Find  out  what  truth  there  is 
in  this  story,  before  you  go  any  further.  There's 
some  truth  in  it.'  Then  a  bright  idea  struck  me.  I 
said,  '  Old  Sedbergh  ought  to  know  something  about  it. 
Will  it  satisfy  you  if  I  go  to  him?  '  " 

"  Ah !  I  never  thought  of  that.  Did  it  satisfy 
him.?" 

"He  had  to  say  that  it  would.  So  I  went.  I 
couldn't  get  hold  of  the  old  man  till  this  morning.  But 
when  I  did,  he  looked  at  me  in  a  funny,  kind  sort  of 
way,  and  said,  '  If  you  can  get  Joan  Clinton  for  your 
wife,  you'll  be  the  luckiest  young  man  in  the  worlds 
Go  and  get  her.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't.  ' 
I  know  what  I'm  saying.'  Well,  that  put  the  lid  on, 
Mr.  Clinton.  I  sent  a  note  to  my  uncle ;  I'd  promised 
to  do  that  before  I  came ;  and  here  I  am." 

The  Squire  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  You 
have  come  at  the  right  time,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  very 
glad  you  have  come  as  you  have — knowing  nothing 
more  than  you  do.  It's  a  thing  that  I  shall  think  of 
with  pleasure  all  my  life.  But,  as  I  told  your  uncle, 
I  wouldn't  ask  you  here  as  long  as  my  name  was  under 


Skies  Clearing  365 

a  cloud.  Perhaps  the  name  of  Clinton  will  be  under  a 
cloud  some  little  time  longer.  But,  thank  God,  the 
cloud  no  longer  rests  on  this  house.  I  can  tell  you 
everything  that  has  happened,  feeling  that  I  am  wrong- 
ing nobody.  I  couldn't  have  told  Lord  Cheviot,  and 
I  couldn't  have  told  you  yesterday.  Read  this.  It  is 
a  paper  I  received  from  my  son,  Humphrey,  from 
Australia,  this  morning." 

"  I'm  satisfied  for  myself,"  he  said.  "  Can  I  tell  my 
uncle  what's  in  it.''  " 

"  You  can  tell  anyone  you  like,"  said  the  Squire. 

As  he  was  reading  it,  the  door  opened  and  Joan  came 
in,  in  her  furs.  It  was  beginning  to  get  dusk.  When 
she  saw  that  there  was  somebody  with  her  father,  she 
would  have  withdrawn.  When  she  saw  who  it  was,  her 
hand  went  to  her  heart;  but  her  lover  turned  and  saw 
her  at  that  moment. 

A  little  later  he  confessed,  with  a  happy  laugh,  that 
he  had  brought  down  a  bag,  and  left  it  at  the  station. 
The  Squire  went  out  of  the  room  to  procure  somebody 
to  fetch  it,  which  he  could  very  well  have  done  by  ring- 
ing the  bell. 


CHAPTER    IX 


SKIES   CLEAR 


We  began  with  the  train,  and  will  end  with  the  train. 
It  was  the  material  link  by  which  Kencote,  standing  as 
it  had  done  through  so  many  centuries  remote  and  aside 
from  the  turmoil  of  life,  had  been  drawn  into  the  centre 
of  troublous  events.  It  had  brought  Joan  home  from 
her  fateful  visit  to  Brummels,  Humphrey  to  tell  his 
terrible  story,  Susan  to  her  sad  resting-place,  Mrs. 
Amberley  to  demand  satisfaction  and  threaten  venge- 
ance, and  latterly  the  young  lover  whose  coming  had 
brought  joy  in  place  of  sorrow. 

Now  it  was  to  bring,  within  a  few  days,  enough 
guests  to  fill  all  the  spare  rooms  of  Kencote  for  Joan's 
wedding;  and  it  was  bringing,  this  afternoon,  one  of 
the  most  valued  of  them  all. 

This  was  Miss  Bird,  affectionately  known  to  the 
Clinton  family  as  "  the  old  starling,"  who  had  first 
taught  Dick  his  letters  nearly  forty  years  before,  and 
had  gone  on  teaching  letters,  and  other  things,  to  all 
the  young  Clintons  in  turn,  until  the  twins  had  reached 
the  ripe  age  of  fifteen,  six  years  before.  Then  she 
had  left,  much  regretted,  partly  because  the  twins  had 
to  be  "  finished,"  and  she  could  not  undertake  suitably 
to  finish  them,  partly  because  duty  had  called  her  from 

366 


Skies  Clear  367 

the  spacious  comforts  of  Kcncote  to  share  the  narrow 
home  of  a  widowed  sister. 

The  twins  were  at  the  station  to  meet  her — tall, 
beautiful,  stately  3'oung  women  to  the  outward  eye, 
but,  for  this  occasion,  children  again  at  heart,  and 
mischievous  children  at  that. 

"  Oh,  what  fun  it  is !  "  said  Nancy,  with  a  shiver  of 
pleasure,  as  the  train  came  into  the  station.  "  I  don't 
feel  a  day  older  than  fourteen.  There  she  is,  Joan — 
the  sweet  old  lamb  !  " 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  years  had  robbed  Miss 
Bird  of  such  sweetness  as  she  may  at  one  time  have 
presented  to  the  impartial  view.  She  was  a  diminutive, 
somewhat  withered,  elderly  woman,  but  still  sprightly  in 
speech  and  movement,  and  of  breathless  volubility. 

She  flung  herself  out  of  the  carriage,  almost  before 
it  had  come  to  a  standstill,  and  was  enveloped  in  a 
warm,  not  to  say  undignified  embrace  by  both  the  twins 
at  once. 

"Oh,  my  darlings,"  she  cried,  flinging  to  the  winds 
all  the  stops  in  the  language,  "  to  see  you  both  standing 
there  just  as  it  used  to  be  though  one  married  and  the 
other  going  to  be  and  such  a  grand  marriage  too  as 
sweet  as  ever  my  bonnet  Nancy  darling  and  everything 
the  same  here  but  a  new  station-master  I  see  oh  it  is 
too  much." 

Joan  and  Nancy  marched  her  out  of  the  station  to 
the  carriage,  all  three  laughing  and  talking  at  once, 
and  made  her  sit  between  them,  which  was  just  possible, 
as  she  took  up  very  little  room. 


368  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

She  wiped  away  an  unaffected  tear,  and  broke  out 

again. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life  and 
to  think  of  me  being  an  honoured  guest  and  amongst 
all  the  lords  and  ladies  I  hope  I  shall  know  how  to 
behave  myself  and  one  of  the  first  you  wrote  to  darling 
Joan  as  you  said  and  Mr.  Clinton  saying  whoever 
else  was  left  out  /  must  be  asked  and  how  is  dear  Mrs. 
Clinton  well  I  hope  I'm  sure  the  kindness  I  have  received 
in  this  house  I  never  can  forget  and  never  shall  forget 
darling  Nancy  my  bonnet." 

"  Isn't  she  too  sweet  for  words,  Joan.?  "  said  Nancy. 
"  She  hasn't  altered  a  bit.  Starling  darling,  you  are 
the  most  priceless  treasure.  We  didn't  value  you 
nearl}^  enough  when  vre  had  you  with  us." 

"  Now  my  pet  that  is  not  a  thing  to  say,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  "two  dearer  and  more  affectionate  children  you 
mia:ht  roam  the  world  over  and  never  find  troublesome 
sometimes  I  do  not  say  you  were  not  but  never  really 
naughty  no  one  could  say  it  and  now  grown  up  quite 
and  one  a  married  woman  it  doesn't  seem  possible." 

"  I  was  very  hurt  that  you  didn't  come  to  my  wed- 
ding," said  Nancy.  "  I  know  why  it  is.  Joan  is  going 
to  be  a  Countess,  and  I  am  only  plain  Mrs." 

"  The  idea  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Miss  Bird  in  horror, 
"  never  so  much  as  entered  my  head  how  can  you  say 
it  Nancy  I'm  sure  if  Joan  had  been  going  to  marry 
a  crossing-sweeper  not  that  I  don't  think  she  would 
adorn  any  position  and  much  more  suitable  as  it  is  I 
should  have  come  just  the  same  and  you  know  quite  well 


Skies  Clear  369 

why  I  couldn't  come  to  your  wedding  Nancy  and  almost 
cried  my  eyes  out  but  an  infectious  illness  you  would 
not  have  liked  to  be  brought  you  should  not  say  such 
things." 

"  I'll  forgive  you,"  said  Nancy,  "  if  you  promise  to 
love  John.  He  is  here,  you  know.  But  we  wouldn't 
let  anybody  come  to  the  station  with  us.  We  wanted 
you  to  ourselves." 

"  Pets !  "  said  Miss  Bird  affectionately. 

"Ronald  is  here  too,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  come 
either,"  said  Joan. 

"  What  is  he  like  tell  me  about  him,"  said  Miss  Bird. 

Joan  cast  a  quick  glance  at  Nanc}',  over  the  rather 
disordered  bonnet.  It  was  the  look  that  had  meant  in 
their  childhood,  "  Let's  have  her  on." 

"  He  is  most  awfully  good,''  she  said  in  rather  an 
apologetic  voice.  "  Starling  dear,  I  wanted  to  say 
something  to  you  before  you  saw  him.  You  don't 
think — if  you  love  anybody  very  much,  and  they  are 
really  good — it  matters  about  their  looks,  do  you.?  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  consider  him  most  handsome,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  "  my  sister  gave  me  that  illustrated  paper  with 
his  photograph  and  yours  in  a  full  page  to  each  I  wrote 
and  told  you  so  and  pleased  and  proud  I  was  to  have  it 
and  over  my  mantelpiece  it  is  hanging  now." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  wrote,  darling,  and  it  was  very 
sweet  of  you.  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  answer  your 
letter.  You  know  papers  zcill  make  mistakes  some- 
times." 

"What   do   you   mean  what   mistake  .'^  "   asked  Miss 


370  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

Bird.  '•  It  said  plainly  beneath  the  photographs  '  The 
Earl  of  Inverell  '  and  '  Miss  Joan  Clinton.'  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  did,  and  it  was  me  all  right.  Oh, 
Starling  darling,  can't  you  guess  .^  Ronald  is  very 
good  and  very  sweet,  and  I  love  him  dearly ;  but " 

"  But  he  is  no  beauty,"  said  Nancy.  "  You  can't 
expect  us  both  to  marry  handsome  men." 

"  I  shouldn't  call  him  scrubby,  exactly,  should  you, 
Nancy?"  enquired  Joan. 

"  Not  to  his  face,"  replied  Nancy. 

Joan  gave  a  little  gurgle,  which  she  turned  into  a 
cough.  "  Starling  darling,  you  don't  mind  beards  in 
a  young  man,  do  j^ou.'^  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  will  get  him  to  shave  that  off,"  said  Nancy, 
"  after  you  are  married.  I  shouldn't  worry  about  that. 
And  I  don't  think  a  very  slight  squint  really  matters. 
You  can  always  call  it  a  cast  in  the  eye,  and  some 
people  like  it." 

"  You  see.  Starling  darling,  I  wanted  you  to  be 
prepared,"  said  Joan.  "  I  couldn't  let  you  see  him 
without  saying  something  first,  when  you  thought  he 
was  that  good-looking  young  man  in  the  picture. 
He  is  much  better,  really,  and  his  looks  don't  put  me 
off  in  the  least.  I  don't  think  about  them.  But  if  I 
hadn't  told  you,  you  might  have  been  so  surprised  that 
you  would  have  said  something  that  would  have  hurt 
his  feelings." 

"  As  if  I  should  or  could,"  exclaimed  Miss  Bird 
indignantly,  "  there  was  no  occasion  to  say  a  single 
word  Joan  and  a  good  kind  heart  is  far  better  than 


Skies  Clear  371 

good  looks  as  I  have  often  told  you  you  do  me  a  great 
injustice." 

"  I  knew  she  wouldn't  really  mind,  Nancy,"  said  Joan. 
"But  I  am  glad  to  have  warned  her.  She  will  get  used 
to  the  beard." 

"  And  the  cast  in  the  eye,"  added  Nancy. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Miss  Bird,  "  I  should  never  notice 
such  things  a  beard  is  a  sign  of  manly  vigour  your 
father  has  a  beard." 

"  Ah,  but  it  isn't  a  beard  like  father's,"  said  Joan. 
"  It  is  more  tufty  and  fluffy.  I  suppose  you  thought 
that  young  man  in  the  picture  veri^  handsome,  didn't 
you,  Starling  darhng?  " 

"  Indeed  no  such  thing,"  said  Miss  Bird,  "  I  said  to 
my  sister  and  she  will  bear  witness  good-looking  yes 
but  not  a  match  in  looks  for  my  darling  Joan  and  glad 
I  am  now  that  I  said  it." 

Joan  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  embraced  her  warmly. 
"  Oh,  you're  too  sweet  and  precious  for  words,"  she 
said.  "  That  was  Ronald,  and  I  shall  tell  him  you  don't 
think  he  is  very  handsome." 

"  Wliat  a  donkey  you  are,  Joan!"  said  Nancy. 
"  Why  didn't  you  let  her  meet  him  in  the  hall  ?  " 

"  Now  that  is  too  bad  Joan  'n'  Nancy,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  quite  in  her  old  style  of  reproof,  "  a  little  piece  of 
fun  I  can  understand  but  you  might  have  made  it  most 
awkward  for  me  Joan  my  bonnet  well  there  I  suppose 
I  must  say  nothing  more  you  will  have  your  joke  and 
neither  of  you  have  altered  at  all  you  are  very  naughty 
girls  and  I  was  just  going  to  say  if  you  did  not  behave 


372  TJie  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

I  should  tell  Mrs.  Clinton  pets  I  love  you  more  than 


ever." 


Miss  Bird  was  almost  overcome  with  emotion  when 
she  arrived  at  the  house.  The  story  was  immediately 
told  against  her,  and  provoked  laughter,  especially 
from  the  Squire,  who  said,  "  The  young  monkeys ! 
They  want  husbands  to  keep  them  in  order,  both  of 
them.  'Pon  my  word,  with  you  here,  Miss  Bird,  I  feel 
inclined  to  pack  them  off  to  the  schoolroom,  to  get 
them  out  of  the  way.  It  makes  me  feel  young  again 
to  see  you  here.  Miss  Bird.  You  seem  to  belong  to 
Kencote,  and  I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you  here  again, 
very  pleased  indeed." 

Miss  Bird's  heart  was  full,  as  she  was  taken  up  to  her 
old  bedroom  by  Joan  and  Nancy.  Such  a  welcome ! 
And  from  the  Squire  too,  of  whom  she  had  always 
stood  much  in  awe,  but  to  whom  she  looked  up  as  the 
type  and  perfection  of  manhood ! 

But  how  he  had  aged !  When  she  was  left  alone,  she 
looked  out  on  to  the  spring  green  of  the  park,  and 
the  daffodils  growing  under  the  trees,  and  thought  of 
how  many  years  it  was  since  she  had  first  looked  out  on 
to  that  familiar  scene,  and  how  unchanged  it  was, 
although  the  children  she  had  taught,  and  loved,  had 
all  grown  up,  and  most  of  them  were  married.  She 
thought  of  herself  as  a  young,  timid  girl,  for  the  first 
time  away  from  her  home,  and  of  the  Squire  as  a  splendid 
young  man,  bluff  and  hearty  even  then.  She  had  spent 
the  best  part  of  her  life  at  Kencote,  and  had  slept 
more  nights  in  this  room  than  in  any  other.     Kencote 


sides  Clear  373 

had  been  her  home,  and  she  had  grown  old  in  it.  If 
the  Squire,  who  had  always  been  so  vigorous  that  the 
years  had  passed  over  him  imperceptibly,  was  also  at 
last  growing  old,  it  was  in  the  place  he  loved  above  all 
others.  She  liked  to  think  of  him  and  dear  Mrs. 
Clinton  still  living  here,  she  hoped  for  many  years  to 
come,  with  nothing  changed  about  them,  but  only  an 
added  peace  and  quietness,  to  suit  the  evening  of  their 
lives. 

Later  in  the  evening,  before  dinner,  the  Squire  paid 
a  long-deferred  visit  to  his  cellars.  The  house  would 
soon  be  filled  from  top  to  bottom  with  guests,  and  he 
wished  to  put  the  best  he  had  before  them,  or  before 
such  of  them  as  could  appreciate  it ;  also  to  take  stock 
generally  of  the  supply  of  wines  in  ordinary  use,  which 
he  did  regularly,  but  had  not  done  for  many  months 
past.  He  was  accompanied  by  his  old  butler  with  the 
cellar-book,  and  a  footman  with  a  candle,  and  spent 
nearly  an  hour  among  the  bins  and  cobwebs. 

At  the  end  of  the  inspection,  some  slight  trouble 
arose.  The  old  butler  had  been  fetching  up  claret 
which  the  Squire  had  intended  should  be  kept  for  a  time. 
He  did  not  drink  claret  himself,  and  had  not  noticed 
the  change. 

"  If  we  had  used  the  other  lot  up  you  ought  to  have 
come  and  told  me,  Porter,"  he  said.  "  I  never  meant 
this  wine  to  be  used  every  day.  You  come  down  here 
without  a  with-your-leave  or  a  by-your-leave,  and  act 
as  if  you  were  master.  You've  been  with  me  for  a 
jiumber   of   years,   and  have   come   to   think   you   can 


374  The  Honour  of  the  Clintons 

do  what  you  like.  But  you  can't.  I  won't  have  it, 
Porter." 

He  marched  off  between  the  bins,  and  up  the  cellar 
steps.  The  old  butler  looked  after  him  with  a  smile 
on  his  face,  of  which  the  attendant  footman  mistook 
the  source,  remarking,  "  He  do  give  it  you,  don't 
he.?" 

"They're  the  best  words  I've  had  from  him  for  a 
long  time,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He's  got  back  to  him- 
self again." 

But  if  the  Squire  had  got  back  to  himself,  it  was 
not  entirely  to  his  old  habits.  It  had  never  before 
been  Mrs.  Clinton's  custom  to  sit  with  him  in  his  room, 
as  he  now  liked  her  to  do,  and  as  she  did  that  evening, 
while  the  younger  members  of  the  party,  including 
Miss  Bird,  were  disporting  themselves  in  the  billiard- 
room. 

"This  will  be  the  last  of  it,  Nina,"  he  was  saying. 
"  When  Frank  marries  it  won't  be  from  this  house. 
They  call  it  a  quiet  wedding,  but,  'pon  my  word,  I 
don't  know  how  we  could  very  well  have  found  room 
for  any  more  than  are  coming.  I'm  rather  dreading 
it  in  a  way,  Nina.  I  feel  I'm  getting  too  old  for  all 
this  bustle." 

"  We  shall  be  very  quiet  when  it  is  all  over,"  said 
Mrs.  Clinton. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  You  and  I  will  be  quiet 
together  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  We  shall  have  our 
children  with  us  often,  and  our  grandchildren;  but  for 
the   most   of  the   time   we   shall  just   be   by   ourselves. 


Skies  Clear  375 

We've  had  a  long  life  together,  mj  dear.  We've  had  a 
great  deal  of  happiness  in  it,  and  have  been  through 
some  very  deep  trouble.  But  the  skies  are  clear  now, 
and,  please  God,  they'll  keep  clear.  Nina,  my  dear, 
we've  got  a  great  deal  to  thank  Him  for." 


THE    END 


DAY    AND    TO    $,  oo  VI       ^  ^'^  "^^E  FOURTH 
OVERDUE.  *'°°    °N    THE    SEVENTH     dIy 


LD21-i00m-7,'39(402s) 


